


Blood of the Martyrs

by jesuisfarouche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisfarouche/pseuds/jesuisfarouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris: Nobody gets in, nobody gets out. An alliance that once sought to liberate the people has turned quite literal. </p><p>Dystopian, science fiction-y AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

" _Blood loss detected_."

 _Now you tell me_. Of course he was losing blood. It ran a slow river down his bicep and pooled in the little space that his arm and his chest created. He held his arm tight to his body, perhaps in hopes it would help to slow the bleeding, perhaps because of the pain. He wasn't quite sure.

The bullet burned hot in his flesh. Razor-sharp fragments dug deeper into his muscle with every move. Panting, he leaned his head back against the wall behind him. The bricks were cool, and he was warm. It was little relief, but relief just the same. His uninjured arm hung at his side with a firm grip on his pistol.

" _Seek medical attention immediately_."

The little chip planted just under the skin behind his ear had its uses. Comfort in critical situations, however, was not one of them. "Status: Feuilly?" He didn't have to phrase it as a question - it was an incredible piece of technology and would have understood his information request regardless - but he was worried and it was instinct.

" _Alive_."

"Status: Jehan?"

" _Alive_."

Courfeyrac closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "Open a comm to base."

Three blips and a few seconds of static later, the connection was made and secure. "Where the hell are you? What is taking you so long?"

"Combeferre--"

"How did you manage to get separated? Feuilly returned here half an hour ago, the screen shows Jehan is in the tunnels. What the hell happened?"

Courfeyrac didn't want to look at the hole in his arm but his curiosity was getting the better of him. "There were more of them than we thought," he explained through gritted teeth. He stared at the bullet wound for just a moment, then tore his gaze away and leaned out from the corner of the wall he had backed himself up against. "Can you see any of the Watch near my position?"

A pause and more static. "Looks clear from here but they're on the move. Hell, Courfeyrac, you're injured!"

" _Blood loss detected_."

"I know. _I know_." His vision swam and his eyes fluttered. Courfeyrac inhaled sharply and straightened. "I can make it back underground but I don't know how long I can stay conscious, Combeferre." He didn't mean for his voice to waver. He didn't mean to sound so panicked. For the first time in a long time, he feared for his life.

A bullet in the arm was a pretty shitty way to die.

"I'll send Bahorel to pick you up. Hurry back. I'll monitor your vitals from here. You're going to be just fine, Courfeyrac." There was an uneasy kindness in Combeferre's voice. "Really though, do be quick. Good luck." A short blip, and the connection was closed.

In the distance gunfire rang out, far too close for Courfeyrac's comfort. He steeled himself and left his position in the shadows. He was only a couple blocks away from an entrance to the underground but it may as well have been miles. His arm throbbed and his head spun and he didn't quite understand how his legs were still moving but somehow they were.

" _Seek medical attention immediately_."

He must have looked awfully suspicious, running through the streets past curfew with a pistol in hand, for the inevitable occurred. He heard the Watch behind him but knew it was suicide to stop and exchange fire with them.

"Citizen, stop!"

He kept running.

"Citizen, you are under arrest!"

He ran faster.

He just needed to make it around the corner. Just make it around the corner. A bang, and a bullet flew past his head. Two more quickly followed, one hitting the pavement at his feet, the other lost somewhere in the dark.

 _Just make it around the corner_.

Finally he reached the tiny alley that would save his life. Momentum took over as he turned the corner, and he held his injured arm out to place a hand on the brick so he would not fall. Fire burned in his bicep and he would have cried out had he not been so out of breath.

The door was open. Bahorel was quick.

" _You are losing consciousness_."

 _Well that's just fucking unnecessary_. Courfeyrac had only time enough to see Bahorel emerge from the open door before giving in to the black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only a vague idea where this dystopian AU science-fictiony thing is headed but I like it so I'm just gonna keep going with it.


	2. Chapter 2

Light. Bright, white light, brighter than any light he had ever seen. _I'm dead. I must be dead_.

"Welcome back."

Courfeyrac blinked his eyes open. "I'm alive?"

Combeferre's gentle face blurred into view. "Yes," he confirmed as he lifted an arm to move the lamp that was shining directly into Courfeyrac's face. "Sorry about that. Yes, you're alive." The familiar sight of their modest med room slowly appeared as Courfeyrac's eyes adjusted to the lack of light in his face. It was a sight he never thought he would be so relieved to see.

Combeferre turned to retrieve something from the counter opposite the operating table. "Do you want to keep this?"

He held up a long tweezers, the end of which gripped a ball of misshapen metal. Courfeyrac smiled. "That's pretty badass." He managed a bit of a laugh. "Yeah, I'll keep it."

Combeferre returned his smile and placed the tweezers and the bullet dug from Courfeyrac's bicep back down onto a metal tray. "Bahorel pulled you in right after you passed out. Just in time, too, from what he says. Jehan had met him in the tunnels on his way back to base. They carried you here."

The thought of Jehan attempting to help carry him gave Courfeyrac another smile. Little Jehan, light and lithe, who had never been out on so much as a recon mission until the previous night, assisting in lugging his unconscious ass to safety. Bahorel was strong though, to be sure. Perhaps Jehan carried his feet.

Combeferre held a small datapad in his hand. "Can you hear this?" He pressed a button and a blip sounded in Courfeyrac's ear. No, not in his ear, in his head. It was something that was still odd to think about even a few years after the chip had been planted. He nodded. Combeferre put down the datapad.

"I haven't done a blood transfusion in quite a while," Combeferre continued, "but I'm confident it was a success."

"Transfusion? Who gave me blood?"

"Who do you think?"

Of course. Their fearless leader would no doubt be in his quarters that very moment, pretending to rest while pouring over documents and data chips and maps and information and whatever other important things littered his desk. "Is he angry?"

Combeferre handed him a glass of water. Courfeyrac didn't even realize he was insatiably thirsty until the coolness touched his lips. "He expects a full report."

The chill of the icy water hit his stomach along with the pang of realization that the reason things had gone awry the previous night was because he had failed to do his job properly. It was supposed to be a routine scout: check the area of a suspected route out of Paris for complications and Watch outposts. The suspected route was yet another entrance to the old sewer system - the same that they now employed as base and headquarters (with some modifications, of course).

These types of missions were fairly routine for their group. Usually done in pairs, Jehan had come along to train. It was simple in theory: place a decoy detonator a block of two away (depending on where the Watch was located), set it off, scout the area while the Watch was occupied with your decoy.

Courfeyrac had forgotten to set the decoy.

There was a Plan B of course, and he had implemented it. Fire a few shots into the air and run like hell. Presumably your companion would then scout the area while the Watch chased you, and once you shook them you would meet up at a previously agreed-upon rendezvous point.

Courfeyrac had also forgotten to set a rendezvous point.

"I really fucked this one up," he admitted.

Combeferre leaned against the counter, his fingers lightly gripped against the metal edge. "Yes, but Feuilly and Jehan got back safe and unscathed, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Don't be too harsh on yourself."

"No, that's Enjolras' job."

"Speaking of." Combeferre straightened. "He asked me to inform him when you regained consciousness." He could simply comm Enjolras, but thought it best to give Courfeyrac a moment to himself before the epic scolding he was about to receive. He retrieved his jacket, which hung on a hook near the entrance to the med room. "Can I get you anything before I go?"

Courfeyrac shook his head. Combeferre gave him one more reassuring smile before turning and taking his leave.

So Courfeyrac was left alone in the med room, a needle in his vein and tubes attached and a threadbare blanket over his legs. He sighed. He could take this time to think of excuses to make, but figured it was probably best to admit to all faults and take whatever punishment Enjolras thought fit. All he could do was patiently wait for the oncoming storm.

 

* * *

 

When Paris fell, she fell fast. Months of political instability accumulated into a complete turnover of the government within several hours. Though the previous rule had its faults to be sure, it was tame compared to the tyranny that followed.

Her borders had been completely shut to the outside world. Not a single person was allowed entrance, and any attempted escape from the city was punishable by immediate execution without trial. All this had been done in the name of security. France was dangerous, they said. You are fortunate to live within the safety of these walls. You are lucky to be alive.

Rumors of plague on the outside kept many of the people in the city scared enough to comply at first, but the starvation and disease that followed was killing Paris' people. It was a hell on earth. Food rations were meager, education had halted completely, and industry was dead. All that was left to do was wait for the borders to reopen or wait for death.

Les Amis de l'ABC and their sister societies had done what they could before the Fall to lift the people, but once the borders were shut it was difficult to do anything but try to get the people out. Enjolras was devastated to give up his fight in place for a new one, but as Combeferre had told him in intimate conference, some things are simply not possible. Sometimes you must do what you can with the situation given.

So they organized, fled underground, and planned a new revolution. Once they found ways to escape Paris it was just a matter of finding people who wanted to leave, getting them together unseen, and executing a group escape. A safe house outside the city was set up to collect them and send them on their way. It was a good system, but it would be better if the Watch didn't keep finding their tunnels and blocking them off. It would be better still if the other societies weren't found out and dismantled. Their friends began to disappear, and though they trusted they would keep their silence even in the face of death, it was troubling to be one of the only groups left.

For a year and a half they kept up their struggle, though as time passed it became clear that eventually this fight, too, must be given up. The question now was when to abandon their base and take their own flight. If it were up to Enjolras, they never would. But you cannot help the people if you are dead, and if the group stayed in Paris for too long while their options and resources drained away and their names and faces became known, death would surely take them.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras didn't walk. He _strode_. It wasn't on purpose, of course. He just had a way of naturally commanding a room whenever he entered it. That stride was a big part of it. That and his unwavering gaze that demanded your attention and your respect. Courfeyrac didn't understand how he did it, but damn, he did it well.

"You are well?" he asked, his eyes briefly scanning over the bandage on Courfeyrac's bicep and the IV in his arm. Courfeyrac couldn't help but notice the bandage wrapped around the crook of Enjolras' elbow.

"Yes."

"Good. Report."

Courfeyrac took a deep breath and fought to maintain eye contact with his leader. If he was going to admit to fault, he would do it with some amount of self-respect, even from atop the operating table. "Feuilly and Prouvaire and I went to the appointed place--the cafe with the cellar entrance into the underground. Watch was posted near there. They spotted us and came to inquire as to why we were out after curfew, I had my finger on the detonator, and I remembered I did not place the charge prior to scouting the location."

Enjolras' eyes were full of fire. His gaze burned into Courfeyrac, but he continued, "So I implemented Plan B immediately. Feuilly and Jehan scattered and I ran a roundabout way back to base. I did not set a rendezvous prior to this." He swallowed. "You are aware of the rest."

There was silence in the med room for a few moments. Courfeyrac was suddenly aware that Combeferre stood in the entryway. As Enjolras' second, this was not surprising, but unsettling nonetheless. He kept quiet however, his arms crossed over his chest, observing.

After what seemed like ages, Enjolras finally spoke, "Are you aware that your carelessness endangered not only the lives of your companions, but the safety of our secure position here?"

"Yes."

"Are you aware of the poor example you set for Prouvaire on his first mission?"

"Yes."

"If you continue to act in this manner I will have no choice but to reassign you. You are a trusted companion, Courfeyrac, but you do not always think. One false move can and will get us all killed. Do you understand this?"

"Yes."

"As part of my inner circle I hold you to a higher standard than the rest of our group, save Combeferre and myself. Rarely do you disappoint me. I cannot fathom what was going through your head last night that allowed you to abandon your duties so lightly, but you will not make this mistake again."

The expression on Enjolras' face softened, but only slightly. "I am grateful your injuries were not as severe as they could have been. I am also grateful you managed to return here and avoid capture. You are an important asset in this fight, Courfeyrac. Losing you would be detrimental to our cause, and would wound me terribly. I gave you my blood and I would do so again willingly, but do not further disappoint me in this manner. Never, _never_ dare put your friends and brothers in a similar situation from this day forward. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. You are grounded here until your injuries heal. Combeferre will be the judge of how long that will take. Make your apologies to Feuilly and Jehan and rest yourself. There is much work to be done, and I need you in shape."

With that, Enjolras took his leave. Combeferre stayed though, and after a few seconds made his way over to Courfeyrac. He placed his hand on Courfeyrac's wrist, lifted it slightly, and checked his pulse with two gentle fingers.

Everything about Combeferre was gentle. His face, his way of movement, his smile. His eyes were ferocity masked with kindness. "He worries, you know. He could not forgive himself if misfortune were to befall one of us."

Courfeyrac closed his eyes. "It's not his place to take responsibility for everyone."

"Isn't it, though?" He replaced Courfeyrac's wrist back onto the table, then gingerly removed the tape that held the IV tube in place. "Hold still."

Once the needle left his skin, Courfeyrac exhaled a deep sigh. He hadn't felt shame like this before. The thought of his brothers hurt because of his mistakes tore at him. Combeferre placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "I'll see you to your quarters. Do you want anything to take the edge off?"

This was a great kindness. Their medical supplies were low as it is, but Courfeyrac knew that Combeferre wouldn't offer if he did not mean to give. "No, Combeferre, thank you. I'll sleep it off." He didn't feel he deserved such comfort.


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras' modest quarters were located next to Courfeyrac's. After depositing the younger man in his room and seeing him settled in bed, Combeferre paid a visit to Enjolras, who had wasted no time in getting back to work after the reprimanding he had given.

A mattress, a small desk, and a crate to keep his clothing and personal effects were the only items in the tiny room. An electric lamp hung over the desk ignored in favor of several candles that burned low and cast eerie shadows on the stone walls.

At present, Enjolras' eyes darted over a map of the old sewer system, his brow furrowed firmly in concentration. The threat of destruction of their few known routes out of Paris had given him quite a bit of grief. Above ground there were not any safe options for ferrying groups of people out of the city, but the maze of underground tunnels could deposit one safely from Paris several ways. As the Watch discovered these exit routes and blocked them off, the liberation of the people became far more difficult.

A few weeks prior one of les Amis' sister societies had been completely eradicated. Their headquarters had been raided and every man and woman not immediately killed had been taken in for questioning (and, Enjolras assumed, execution). It was no surprise to him then that three secret exits from the sewers had been blocked off within the past week. Enjolras himself had never been tortured, but he imagined it would be quite difficult to keep one's silence while in agony. Thus, he did not harbor any resentment towards his unfortunate allies. Man will act as man does in order to preserve himself.

Combeferre stood in the doorway at watched as Enjolras picked up his pen and made a sad but firm X on his map. He placed the pen back down on the desk and with elbows resting on the wood, folded both hands together and rested his chin on them.

"You seem increasingly troubled as of late."

Enjolras did not stir. "I am."

Combeferre took a step into the room. "Tell me what troubles you."

Long fingers raked through a tangle of blond curls. "Can I speak now to you in confidence?" Combeferre stepped around the chair where Enjolras sat and leaned against the wall, looking down at Enjolras. He nodded: of course. "Combeferre, my friend, this is a battle that cannot be won."

Combeferre did not respond. He knew this to be true. There were only so many people les Amis could save before they were captured or killed. They couldn't liberate the entire city with the resources they possessed. Driven underground like rats, starving and exhausted and hunted down; it was enough to make any man despair, even one as resolute and unwavering in his determination as Enjolras.

The young man inhaled deeply, and then exhaled slowly. "I worry that I have condemned us all. Courfeyrac made mistakes last night, but it was I who gave him his assignment. It was I who sent Jehan along when I doubted him to be ready. Courfeyrac's blood is on my hands, and if Jehan had been hurt, or worse--"

"But he wasn't. They are not children, Enjolras. They made their choice of their own free will long ago. Prouvaire is young but he is a man still." Combeferre placed a hand on Enjolras' shoulder and gently squeezed. "You often carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, friend. Surely you must know we are all still beside you because we choose to be, not because you command it so."

Enjolras did not quite believe him, but he gave him a faint smile and a nod just the same.

Silence filled the tiny room. Enjolras felt an almost static charge in the air. He understood his friend well enough to know he hadn't given him his entire mind. "Speak, Combeferre."

Combeferre glanced down at the map. He couldn't back out now. "Do you remember what I told you when we moved our operation underground?" he asked, and he met Enjolras' eyes once again. "After the first group had been liberated."

Impossible blues and deepest greens remained locked on each other, though Enjolras admittedly wished to look away. He spoke softly, "You told me you would not let me die for this. You told me it was not the fight I had started and when you felt it was becoming too dangerous, you would urge me to call the operation off." Combeferre blinked. "Am I remembering that correctly?"

The doctor simply nodded. Enjolras broke his gaze away from his friend and looked back down on the map. The wrinkled paper was littered with the angry X's of blocked escapes. Enjolras had not felt the sting in the crook of his elbow where Combeferre's needle had entered his vein until now. He thought of Courfeyrac, unconscious on the operating table, pale and covered in sweat and dirt. He thought of the way all color had drained from Feuilly's face when the man learned that he was the first of his companions to return back to base. He thought of Jehan's wide eyes as watched Combeferre dig the last fragments of the bullet out of Courfeyrac's bicep. "So, you are urging me to call the operation off."

"I am urging you to think of your life, the lives of your friends, and the good that can be done outside of Paris," Combeferre said in half-confirmation. "This city is dead, Enjolras. Soon we will be trapped here. I do not wish this sewer to become our grave, and I know you don't wish it either."

"You want me to abandon the people."

"I want you to live."

"I would gladly exchange my life for any number of theirs. For any number of yours."

Combeferre knew he could not win. He took a couple of steps towards the entryway, but Enjolras caught his wrist in his hand. Combeferre stopped. He did not look at Enjolras, who said nothing. He simply held him there for a few seconds. But Combeferre understood. He placed his free hand on top of Enjolras and gently pulled the man's fingers from his skin.

He continued to the doorway, but before he exited he turned back and said softly, "All I ask is that you think on it."

"Of course."

Combeferre took his leave. Enjolras' eyes had not left the map. The flames of the candles burned in his eyes.

As he walked the narrow corridor back towards the med room, Combeferre heard what he wished he had not: the unmistakable sound of a chair tossed angrily against the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

Green, sweet, earth. Lemons, perhaps. Tiny bits clung sticky to his fingertips as he breathed in the scent. It hung behind his eyes for a fleeting moment, complex and familiar and comforting. Little bits torn up and arranged in a neat line on a small rectangle of thin paper. Turn up one side, roll and shape, lick the end, press to seal. Flame, flare, breath.

In the quiet of his very own tunnel of the old Paris sewers, Grantaire got thoroughly stoned.

He chose to live apart from the other men. In part it was because he enjoyed the calmness away from all the lights and cables and documents and constant comings-and-goings and the severity of The Mission. In part it was because he was pleased to be able to spread out a bit - les Amis had built walls to separate rooms in their area of the tunnel, but Grantaire had left the space open. In part, it was to escape the piercing blue eyes that locked onto him and destroyed him.

Grantaire held the joint between his thumb and forefinger, pinching just firmly enough as to not inhale the bits of the bud but gently enough to allow the smoke to enter his lungs. A slow exhale, and he watched as thick smoke curled around itself and dissipated into the stagnant air. The familiar warmth blossomed deep in his chest, and his head felt light. He closed his eyes and lay back onto the makeshift pallet of blankets and pillows and cushions on which he slept.

Sometimes he wondered why he stayed. There had been many opportunities within the past year and some months to leave Paris. All it would take was for him to ask to be escorted out with the next group that was to be liberated, and he would be free to go where he pleased and do what he felt and drink what he desired. There was no alcohol left in Paris, and if there was Grantaire sure as hell didn't know where to find it.

But Grantaire knew there was nothing for him outside of the city's walls. He may not have much under the streets, but he couldn't bear the thought of being alone in the big, open world. Here, at least, he had his friends. And he had his plants, and his paper and charcoal. And he had his big open space all to himself just down the way from the rest of them. Why would he ever want to leave?

He had lost himself in thoughts and barely noticed the hand that took the joint from his fingers. "I can smell this all the way down the corridor."

Grantaire glanced upwards with bloodshot eyes. Bossuet looked down at him with that stupid familiar grin on his face and put the joint to his lips. He inhaled deeply and sat down on the cushions. "Enjolras doesn't approve of cannabis, you know."

"He didn't approve of the drink, either. To hell with him." Bossuet took another hit and passed it. Grantaire gingerly accepted. "Maybe if he got off his high horse for once in his fucking life and joined in he'd realize what he's missing."

"That's not likely to happen."

"No, it's not."

Grantaire and Bossuet had formed a close friendship in the past six months. Joly and Musichetta were stationed at the safe house outside of Paris to collect the liberated once they made a successful escape, and Bossuet had grown incredibly lonely very quickly. It was torture to be so far from one's lovers for so long. Grantaire saw many things that others missed, and while the rest of their friends knew that Bossuet missed Joly and Musichetta, Grantaire understood it. He saw the emptiness in the man's eyes when he thought no one was looking, and he saw the lack of sleep in Bossuet's face. He offered him his company, his weed, his jokes and conversation. Bossuet graciously accepted, and offered his own companionship and news of the outside in return.

It was a good deal.

The two men smoked in silence, passing the joint between the two of them until it was spent. Grantaire took the last hit, the smoke far too hot and his throat far too dry. No matter. He flicked the roach away and put his hands behind his head. "Do you ever get angry at him?"

There was a long pause as Bossuet attempted to understand who Grantaire was talking about. "Angry at whom?"

"Enjolras."

"For assigning them elsewhere, you mean?" Bossuet considered. "Yes and no. It makes sense. I mean, you need someone with medical knowledge on the other side in case something happens during the liberation, and Combeferre has the trauma training so it makes sense for him to be our medic here, and Joly is the only other medic among our friends. And I would trust no one else with Musichetta's safety than Joly, so it is good they are together. Of course I would love to be with them, but I am needed here. So I suppose no, I am not angry at Enjolras." Bossuet tended to ramble when he was high. "But I miss them terribly."

Grantaire found Joly to be pleasant company, and there was not a man alive who met Musichetta and did not adore her. "You're not alone in that," he said, perhaps a bit more gently than he had intended.

A minute or two passed by in stoned silence. Grantaire didn't know why he asked, he thought he didn't care, but he asked just the same, "How is The Glorious Liberation Mission coming along?"

"Poorly," Bossuet replied honestly. He shifted the blankets under him in an attempt to be at maximum comfort level. "There's only so much we can do. We've been informed on, someone's given all our names and they know Enjolras' face, so he's stuck down here and he hates that, and you know how hard it is to be around him when he's seething all the time."

Grantaire snorted. "No shit, every time I'm within ten feet of him he's seething."

"He just wishes you'd contribute, that's all." That wasn't entirely true and they both knew it. "He was pretty mad at Courfeyrac about last night but you can't be too angry at a man when he's been shot--"

" _What_?"

"Oh, that's right, I forgot you're not really in the loop all the time, are you?" Bossuet turned his head to look at Grantaire, whose bloodshot eyes stared wide at Bossuet.

"Is he okay?"

"Oh yeah, he'll be fine. He's stuck down here too until he heals, though. Can you imagine it? Stuck down in the sewer with Enjolras when everybody else gets to go off and do missions."

Grantaire rarely left the sewers, but he doesn’t mention that to Bossuet. He stood and left the sea of cushions and blankets to seek water.

When he returned to the pallet, Bossuet was curled up under several blankets, eyes closed, breathing heavily. It was only mid-afternoon, but the thing about living underground was that you had no sunlight to dictate proper sleeping patterns, so you took your rest whenever you felt it necessary. On top of that, Bossuet was something of a sleepy smoker.

Grantaire slipped under the blankets behind Bossuet. His body curved to fit the other man. He heard him inhale slowly, a satisfied noise that confirmed this was all right, this was good, stay here with me.

It wasn't love. It wasn't even sex. But it was a warm body to cling to. It was a friend to keep the loneliness at bay. It wasn't what either of them wanted, but it was all they had and it was better than nothing.


	5. Chapter 5

Sixteen days. Sixteen days since he last put thoughts to paper. Sixteen days since he gripped a pen in his fingers and transmuted ideas into a thing, an actual existing thing, beautiful though flat, divine though plain. And yes, he was counting.

Datapads just weren't the same. He didn't want to be an elitist, but Jean Prouvaire knew there was no comparison between selecting letters on a touch screen and giving them life with ink or graphite. Of all the horrible things that had come from the Fall, the shortage of paper at their headquarters was probably pretty high up on Jehan's list of Things to be Upset About.

There was also the lack of sunlight in his life, and the absence of a breeze down there in the tunnels, and the cramped room he slept in, and the feeling that nothing he ever did to contribute to the group would ever be good enough and he could barely even go on one mission without almost getting himself killed and what if Enjolras never let him go anywhere ever again?

Jehan absently tugged at a lock of hair as he pondered his role. He was the youngest of their group, barely twenty years old, and he knew the rest of them viewed him as somewhat of a child. It didn't help that he looked younger than he was. He had heard himself described as petite once, and he supposed it was true. Jehan had also heard himself described as "achingly beautiful", and he wasn't sure of the truth in that but it was better than "petite" by a long shot.

Of the eight of them that lived underground, Jehan figured himself to be the least useful of the bunch. Enjolras was the leader, Combeferre was the medic, Bahorel the strong arm, Feuilly the programmer and hacker and all-around technical genius, and Bossuet and Courfeyrac (usually) quite good at lurking around up on the surface and getting shit done. As for Grantaire, he didn't do much, but nobody really expected him to.

Ah, Grantaire. Grantaire had always been kind to him. Once when Jehan was particularly melancholy Grantaire had shown him his cannabis plants, taught him about how he cultivated them and the various uses the plants had (besides getting one stoned). He had given Jehan a few sheets of his sketch paper he had stashed away, and that was the greatest kindness anybody had shown the boy in as long as he could remember.

So, though Grantaire didn't do very much to help the cause, he brought Jehan a great joy, and that was more than Jehan had ever done for him, so he must be more useful to have around than Jehan. ( _My logic is sound_ , Prouvaire thought with a sigh.)

He was so lost in his musings that he didn't even notice Courfeyrac at his doorway. "Hey. Jehan."

He looked up with a start. "Oh, sorry, I was just--oh! your arm! Are you in a terrible amount of pain? It's awful what happened, really awful. My heart just aches. To be shot, how painful that must have been! I can't even imagine the agony."

Courfeyrac smirked. He liked Jehan. He liked how scattered the young man was at times, but how caring and kind and loving he was by nature. "It wasn't that bad," he lied. "I just came to apologize..." He paused, knowing the next words were not his own, but rather Enjolras'. "For the example I set for you." The next words he did feel, and he let go of the tension in his shoulders. "I didn't follow procedure and put us all in great danger. The last thing I would ever want is to see you hurt, Jehan, and I promise you it won't happen again."

Jehan stood from his chair and took a step over to Courfeyrac--it was all he needed to take in that tiny room. He placed a hand on the taller man's cheek and smiled lovingly. "I forgive you, Courfeyrac, of course," he said, brushing his thumb over the roughness of the stubble on Courfeyrac's jaw. His other hand clasped the man's uninjured arm. "Consider yourself completely atoned."

Prouvaire's touch was far more welcome than Courfeyrac wanted to admit to himself. Electric warmth seemed to radiate from his fingertips, and he could swear that sunlight shone from that smile. He raised his hand to touch Jehan's, which still rested on his face, and returned the younger man's smile.

"Thank you," he said, then pulled away before he let his mind go any further than it had already gone. "There's a meeting in an hour. Main room."

"I shall be there with bells on."

Courfeyrac gave him a quizzical look, and Jehan just smiled. "Bells on. Huh." Two claps of his hand against the doorframe, and Courfeyrac took his leave.

 

* * *

 

Four short blips, a pause. Four short blips, a pause. Four short blips, a pause.

"Bossuet, I swear to God, turn that fucking alarm off."

It was early evening and Grantaire and Bossuet had been napping for entirely too long. Bossuet stretched himself sleepily across the pallet and grabbed his watch from its resting place on the floor. "There's a meeting in an hour," he explained as he rubbed the nap from his eyes. "You should come."

Grantaire pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. The nights grew colder, and the tunnels were cold to begin with. "Now what would be the fun in that?"

"Then don't come. Just thought I'd extend the invitation." Bossuet stood up and stretched, long and lazily, exposing his stomach. Black denim rode sinfully low, and Grantaire stole a glance at the sharp V that disappeared into the black with no regrets. The thing they had wasn't even a thing; he wasn't going to be ashamed for admiring his friend.

"You have fun, I'm going back to sleep."

Bossuet was already making his way down the tunnel, back towards base. "You can sleep when you're dead," he called back to Grantaire, who had already pulled the blanket completely over his head.

 

* * *

 

" _They have your photo on file. They know all of your names. They're closing in on you. Keep a low profile or get out while you still can_."

He scanned over the last lines of the letter several times. The ally who had sent it days prior was dead, beaten bloody on the street by the Watch. The man's body had stayed there for an hour or two before his friends collected him. It was a horrible way to die.

Enjolras thumbed the paper in his hand. Nothing was more important than the freedom of the people. Nothing. No amount of torture or death would convince him otherwise, he was sure of it.

With a steady hand he moved the paper over the flame of the only candle still burning on his desk. He let it smolder, and when the flames came close to his fingertips, dropped the remains of the paper the ground and crushed them with his boot.

There was work to be done.


	6. Chapter 6

" _Shit. Oh, fuck_."

Two green dots shone bring on the screen of the main hub, close together as they had been for two days now. Feuilly watched them, eyes wide, as profanities spewed from the speaker. Two comms were open, one to Combeferre's chip and one to Jean Prouvaire's.

"Is there an exit nearby? A window even?" Feuilly typed furiously at the keyboard, attempting to locate a more accurate map of their current location. None were available. It seemed they had recently been erased from the main network.

" _No, we're trapped. Damn it_." A pause. " _Jehan, take this._ "

" _But—_ “

" _Now, Jehan_."

Behind Feuilly's chair stood Enjolras, brow firmly set, a frown upon his face as he stared at the two dots on the screen. "Is there no way to guide them out?"

It took much of his power for Feuilly not to snap at him. "The maps have apparently been deleted," he said through gritted teeth, still clacking away at the keys. "Three guesses as to who has been digging around the network. I thought we were secure, Enjolras, I really did, but..." He trailed off, and didn't pick his thought back up, but instead lifted his fingers from the keys and shook them a bit before continuing on.

The fucking Watch. Of course. Enjolras had been warned, they were indeed closing in on them. Maybe it had been a mistake on Combeferre's part to request to go out and re-supply their ammunition and medical supplies. Jehan had volunteered himself, no doubt feeling somehow ashamed at his first mission's lack of success. Enjolras had allowed it, Combeferre's words ringing in his ears as he had eyed Jehan, who looked back at him with pleading and courage in his eyes: _Prouvaire is young but he is a man still_. Enjolras couldn't deny him. He consented and sent them on their way.

They had all agreed it would be best for the two to take their time getting the supplies and returning to base. Two days they had been gone, keeping strict radio silence, until they had broken it twenty minutes prior in a panic.

They were too far from base to send anyone to aid them. They were too outnumbered and outgunned to fight their way out. It was likely they had been followed the entire time. With one hand gripped tightly on the back of Feuilly's chair, Enjolras spoke gravely, "Combeferre, Jehan, we have no way to help you get back. You will likely be captured or killed." Feuilly pretended he did not hear the other man's voice break. He continued to stare at the screen as Enjolras spoke. "I am sorry."

There was silence on the other end of the comm. Behind Enjolras, Courfeyrac had entered the room and stood in the doorway. "We can't just leave them."

"We have no choice," Enjolras said to him. He did not turn his head to look back. Instead he reached over Feuilly and placed a hand on one if his, bidding him to stop his furious typing. He held his hand there as his other gently pressed a finger to a button near the comm mic and held it there, muting his voice in Jehan's head. "Combeferre, if you can, do your best to be taken alive. It may be possible to find you. Please, do this for me."

Combeferre did not immediately respond. There was static on the other end of the comm, and then he said softly, " _Of course_."

Enjolras removed his finger from the mute button and his other hand from Feuilly's. "Good luck, my friends. I am sorry we cannot assist you further."

The other end of the comm clicked, and static was all that remained. Combeferre had closed his link, and Jehan soon after. Enjolras stared at the screen, where the two green dots still shone on a map the area of Paris in which the two men were trapped.

Courfeyrac had made his way next to Enjolras, behind Feuilly's chair, and looked to the man as he asked, "What now?"

"Now we wait, and we watch," Enjolras replied, never taking his eyes from the dots on the screen. "These may very well be their last moments. We cannot dishonor our friends by turning away."

Courfeyrac turned his eyes to the screen, and Feuilly relaxed slightly in his chair.

Though Enjolras was not one to show his emotions, he was filled to bursting with anguish, self-loathing, and fear. The very last thing he ever wanted was to know his brothers were in pain, and he wished he could kick himself for agreeing to the mission. There were always those two conflicting thoughts within him: the feeling that he was the one who set them all on a path to destruction, and the knowledge that each man made his own choice and chose his own fate.

The three men waited in silence, eyes on the two green dots, waiting for either or both of them to disappear from the screen.

 

* * *

  
The room they stood in was void of furniture, paint peeling from the walls, and seemed as though it had not seen human life in some weeks. A thin film of dust covered the floorboards. As they had ran in to take refuge there, Jehan had bolted the door, and he and Combeferre now stood at the opposite end of the room, backed up against the wall, a pistol in hand and a large sack full of bullets and medical supplies on the floor at Jehan's feet.

Heavy footfall in the rooms below them indicated that they would soon be found. Combeferre spoke, his voice a low whisper and his eyes on the door, "Jehan, we are going to surrender. If they do not shoot us, we will likely be separated." He turned his face to the smaller man. "Lie to them, and keep lying, say whatever you can think of; as long as you keep talking you have value."

Jehan turned his face to Combeferre's and nodded once. It came as a bit of a surprise to Combeferre to see a lack of fear in the younger man's eyes, but rather intrepidation. It was a fearlessness he had never expected to see in Jehan. He silently chastised himself for expecting anything less of him than bravery in the face of peril.

He felt delicate fingers around his wrist. Dusty blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, Jean Prouvaire squeezed gently and managed a bit of a smile, his lips pressed together. He exhaled through his nose and nodded again. Combeferre could only stare back at the younger man. Perhaps he was more frightened than he thought.

Soon there was banging at the door, and soon after that the lock was forced open. Combeferre counted six guards of the Watch enter the room, and he raised his hands, showing his fingers were off the trigger of the pistol. Jehan followed suit. Before he could process anything else he roughly pressed up against the wall, his face crackling the paint that peeled there. Rough hands bound his wrists behind his back and kept him pinned against the plaster.

"Bullets," he heard one of the guards say. They were no doubt going through their belongings. "Bandages, sedatives. Antibiotics."

"This one is Combeferre," the guard whose arm held him to the wall said. "The younger one is Prouvaire."

"Can you be sure?"

"Yes."

A gloved hand grabbed his hair and forced his head to the side, another hand felt behind his ear. "Intelligence was correct, he's got a chip there. Check the other one."

Combeferre was then violently forced around, his back now against the wall. His eyes went immediately to Jehan, who was on his knees in the center of the room, one of the Watch guards behind him. His wrists were likewise bound behind his back.

The captain of the guards spoke to Combeferre, "Open you comm."

He wanted to spit in his face, he wanted to reach for his gun and fire with abandon, he wanted to drag as many of them as he could to death along with himself, but instead he just swallowed. Enjolras has asked him to attempt to stay alive, and so he would.

"Open your comm," the captain repeated more firmly, and in the corner of his eye Combeferre saw the guard behind Jehan place his weapon to the young man's temple.

He obeyed. "Open a comm to base," he said, fully defeated. He heard three blips and a few seconds of static. And then Enjolras’ voice saying his name.

Combeferre knew that his friends could only hear the words he spoke and nothing else, and whatever the Watch was about to do, they wanted Enjolras to hear it from Combeferre's lips.

He was forced to the floor, a knee digging into his upper back. He felt his breath expel from his lungs, and he gasped for air as a rough hand once again grabbed his hair and forced his head to the side. Something cold and sharp touched the skin behind his ear.

"Don't cut too deep," he heard one of them warn.

And then there was only heat and pain, and something warm and wet running down his neck, and somebody was screaming and why did it sound like his voice? and he gasped for air and screamed again, and when he felt them release him there was a firm kick to his stomach

and he couldn't breathe and he saw them drag Jehan away, his lips were moving but he didn't understand the sounds coming from his friend's mouth, and the pain continued.

He briefly glimpsed a boot in front of his face before everything went black.


	7. Chapter 7

The world was made of black and nothing else. He knew he was conscious, but everything was dark, he had no feeling, his eyes wouldn't open and though he wished to move his muscles, he could not. He had the strange sensation of not caring that he wasn't able to move or see or do anything at all. For a moment, he thought he must be dead.

No, that's not right. He could feel his heart beat slowly in his chest. His lips and the tips of his fingers tingled. His senses began to gradually return to him - the chill against his bare arms where goose bumps now formed, a dull burn high on his right arm. He still couldn't see anything, but he felt the scratch of rough fabric all around his face and the back of his neck, so something must have been placed over his head. But why could he not move his wrists or legs? And where was he?

A rush of memories returned to Jean Prouvaire. He had been a helpless witness as the guards of the Watch had cut the chip out of the flesh behind Combeferre's ear. He remembered how the man's blood rushed scarlet down his neck, his pained cries, and then how he was pulled away. He remembered putting up a fight upon seeing the Watch vehicle, kicking and digging his heels into the paving stones and attempting to rip his arms out of the hands that grasped him on both sides. (He had seen many people forced into the back of those trucks and not once had any of them ever returned.) He remembered a sharp prick in his bicep, and everything softened around him - his vision blurred, angry voices around him turned to a low haunting chord, and he felt light and sleepy. The last thing he remembered was his legs giving out underneath him and strong hands holding him up under his arms.

Jehan inhaled deeply, and then exhaled slowly. Panic would get him nowhere. He assessed the situation: he was a prisoner, he had been drugged, his arms and legs were bound to a chair upon which he sat, and a hood had been pulled over his head to block his vision. He craned his neck to one side and, not feeling any pain there, deduced that they had not removed his chip. He felt a wash of relief at that. Perhaps his friends knew that he was still alive.

 _They must believe Combeferre to be dead_ , he thought sadly. Without a pulse to monitor, his chip would surely have registered him as deceased. He imagined Enjolras' face, stone cold but a raging inferno in his eyes, and he imagined Courfeyrac's hands balled into tight, angry fists. He wished he could reassure them, but for all he knew, Combeferre could very well have been killed. Jehan was frankly surprised that he himself still lived.

He heard a door creak open, and several footsteps, and then he heard the door close along with the sound of a locking mechanism. The footsteps stopped in front of him and the hood was ripped from his head.

Jehan almost cried out. A bright lamp shone down directly on him from high up on the wall he faced. He closed his eyes tightly. It was far too much light to bear after having been washed in dark for who knows how long. 

"Citizen Jean Prouvaire," the man in front of him spoke. "You are a known member of a resistance movement and are accused of seditious activities. Do you admit guilt?"

Slowly, minimally, Jehan began to open his eyes. The light blinded him, and he had to admit it was a good tactic on their part. He felt disoriented, but remembered what Combeferre had told him: as long as he talked he had value. "You did not specify which seditious activities in particular you are referring to, sir; therefore I cannot in good conscience admit guilt."

He heard the crack of a hand gloved in leather connect with his face before he felt it. The sound rang in his ears as a stinging sensation blossomed on his cheek. His lips parted and he let out a short, breathy noise. He let his head remain to the side as the officer paced a bit in front of him. His eyes had begun to adjust, and he now saw there were two others in the room who stood at the door, weapons in hand. 

The room he was in was little more than a concrete cell. The only things inside were the two guards, the officer, the chair, and Jean Prouvaire himself. Cut into the door was a small rectangle filled in with metal bars. It was simplicity, it was cold, and it was utterly terrifying.

Jehan was suddenly aware of the burning thirst he felt in his throat, the hunger that gripped him and held him tight, and the throb of pain that beat in his head and out his ears.

"I do not wish to play games with you, Prouvaire," the officer stated. "You seem an intelligent young man. I will tell you that you have been sitting in that chair for nearly twenty-four hours now." A sick smile twisted on the officer's lips. "If you do not wish to cooperate, I can leave you there for a few days more. It's not so bad, is it? That burn of the cord on your wrists, the way your muscles ache?"

Jehan gritted his teeth. He hadn't noticed these things until they were mentioned. "What do you want of me, then?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the concrete floor.

"You will be of use to us, whether you submit or no. We know that your friends make their headquarters underground, and we know which ways you frequent to enter and exit the sewers. As you are no doubt aware, it is a maze that we could never hope to navigate without assistance."

"If you believe for one moment that I would betray my friends to save my own life--"

"Like I said, Prouvaire, whether you submit or no. It will be easier for you if you cooperate, naturally."

Jehan glanced at the guards in front of the door. One of them had a hand on a truncheon clipped to his belt. The other simply cracked his knuckles.

He allowed himself a few moments of fear. Terror, icy and sharp, seized deep in his chest. He was to be beaten, they were going to hurt him and break him, and the only way to stop it was to pass the sentence along to his friends. His face contorted slightly, but after a few seconds, he exhaled slowly and deeply, and looked up to face the officer in front of him.

"Respectfully, sir, go fuck yourself."

It was probably a bad idea. No, it was definitely a bad idea. He was released from the chair and tossed to the floor. His muscles ached and burned after not having been used for a day, but it was nothing compared to the pain that followed.

The guards of the Watch broke Jean Prouvaire, reduced him to a huddled mass on the concrete, spitting out his own teeth and blood and sobbing quietly into his knees. The officer had observed from the other side of the room, and only after putting a hand up to halt the beating did he step towards Jehan and crouch down on the floor next to him.

The officer took his hand. "I will ask you just once more," he said softly, and with his gloved hands singled out one of Jehan's fingers. "Will you cooperate?"

Jehan knew what was coming. He shut his eyes tightly and replied in as bold a voice as he could manage, "No."

The officer took his wrist in one hand and a finger in the other and there was a sickening crack, a cry of pain, a scuffle of limbs as the man singled out another finger and Jehan attempted to pull himself away.

Four more cracks, four more cries, and Jehan was left alone. He clutched his broken fingers in his other hand, curled up on floor of the concrete cell, and wished with every part of himself that they had just shot him instead.


	8. Chapter 8

Strange. That was the only way to describe it, really. Quite strange. The air around him was thick with a presence no longer there. The fine hairs on his arms prickled, and a chill ran through him down to his bones. He placed a hand on the small desk next to him - to feel closer to him, or to steady himself? He didn't know. It didn't really matter.

Combeferre kept modest quarters, quite like Enjolras, though the two men differed in that Combeferre had moved many more of his possessions underground when they had fled there. Mostly it was for the cause; he had saved several medical texts and references, in addition to new material for him to study. But he had kept many personal items as well.

Enjolras opened the desk drawer with the tentative air of a child exploring where he should not be. It was silly of him, he thought, as the occupant of the room would not be coming back. Combeferre had always kept an organized space. The contents of the drawer were laid neatly inside. Enjolras ran his fingertips over the ornate grip of a pistol - a birthday gift from himself to Combeferre several years prior. As far as he knew, Combeferre had never fired it.

Near the pistol lay a pair of spectacles that were not Combeferre's. Enjolras picked them up and held them gently in front of his face. The spectacles showed their age with a eerie reverence. His father's, perhaps?

He gingerly placed the spectacles back in the drawer. Papers were strewn across the top of the desk, most of them written on in haste, scratchy writing, except for one sheet at the very top of the messy pile. A pen sat across the sheet, the writing careful and well thought-out. Enjolras picked up the paper and as he began to read, he idly made his way to the mattress in the corner (bedclothes still unmade from when Combeferre had set out that morning almost a week prior) and sat there.

It was a letter, addressed to Joly. There was no post to the safe house (there was no post out of Paris at all), but when they would liberate a group of people from the city, the safe house was the first stop, and it was common for one of the group to bring Joly and Musichetta news and greetings from the rest of the Amis. Combeferre had never guided a group to the safe house, he was too valuable to Enjolras to risk losing, and so he had always stayed behind and written letters instead.

Enjolras read, unashamed:

_Dearest Jolllly,_

_It has been far too long since our last correspondence, friend. It seems the citizens of Paris are becoming less eager to gain their freedom. I do not blame them, of course, as punishment for attempting to escape is severe. Not all men can face their fate with such courage as those in our brotherhood have been known to display (modest men that we are!) and so while it is a pity that demand for liberation is dwindling, I do not blame the people. One must act in their own self-interest, after all._

_You are well-missed by every man here, Bossuet most of all. I know he wishes to be by your side, and Musichetta's, and you should know that we hold him in very high regard for his dedication to our cause. To be parted from one's heart is a sacrifice none other in our group has been asked to make, and he has taken it well. I see the sadness in him though, and I know he counts the days until he sees your faces again._

_Enjolras sends his regards. I worry for the man. I fear he_

There was nothing else written. Combeferre must have paused in his writing and never picked the pen back up. Enjolras read the last line a few more times. What had he to fear?

He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. He would have the letter delivered, of course. Enjolras made a mental note to check for any other possible correspondences Combeferre had meant to send. It seemed only right to do that for him.

He felt tears, hot and uninvited, streaming down his cheeks before he even knew he was crying. He knew there had always been the possibility of any one of their group being killed, but he never even imagined Combeferre would be lost. He was too smart, too clever. Combeferre, his most trusted companion, his oldest and dearest friend.

_He asked you to think of your life and the lives of your friends. His life. You knew this was a losing battle and you didn't call it off. His blood is on your hands._

Enjolras was barely aware of the shouts outside of the room until they came closer. It was his name being shouted. Quickly he regained his composure, dragged a sleeve across his face to soak up the tears that remained there, and stood. He exited Combeferre's room and nearly collided with Feuilly.

"Enjolras!"

"What is it?"

"You have to come, it's Jehan."

Enjolras' heart sank. "Is he--"

"No, he's still alive. He's outside, Enjolras."

It took a moment for Feuilly's words to sink in. "Outside?"

"Walk with me, I'll show you."

Enjolras followed Feuilly down the tunnel towards the main hub. Feuilly spoke as they walked in a hurried pace, "He was being held at the detention facility for a few days, that we knew. About an hour ago he started moving. He's just outside the door that opens up to the alley - where we picked up Courfeyrac after he was shot. He's not moving, though."

They reached the hub and sure enough, lit brightly on the computer screen was a small green dot. Jehan had returned.

"This doesn't add up," Enjolras said hesitantly, pressing buttons on the keypad to call for Bahorel and Bossuet. "That they would execute Combeferre and keep Jehan alive, and now that they would release him? This isn't their way. I don't trust this."

"He is our friend, Enjolras, he has likely been hurt. Send Bahorel and Bossuet to collect him and we'll fill in the details later." Feuilly looked up at Enjolras from his chair in front of the hub with pleading eyes. Combeferre's loss had hit them all hard, losing Jehan would likely crush them.

Bahorel was the first to respond to Enjolras' call. After a quick explanation from Enjolras and a pistol slipped into his hand by Feuilly, he simply nodded and left to pick up Jehan. "Tell Bossuet to hurry the hell up!" he called from the tunnel, his feet carrying him faster than even he though possible.


	9. Chapter 9

The walls of the tunnel flew past him in a blur, the electric lights set every few meters flared in his face before darkness covered him once again, only to repeat the cycle. His feet slammed onto the stone beneath him. Legs burned, lungs burned, arms merely weights to continue his momentum.

Bossuet sprinted and his mind raced. Jehan was alive, he was _still_ alive, and he was right outside and within reach and within home and help. Bahorel had left base first, but while he was the stronger of the two men, Bossuet knew himself to be the swifter. With any luck he would catch up with him just as Bahorel reached the surface.

He was not incorrect. Upon climbing the rusted ladder to the room that connected the sewers and the outside, he saw Bahorel at the door, pistol at the ready, his finger at his lips to keep Bossuet silent. Bahorel leaned his head against the door, his ear on the cold metal, listening for voices on the other side.

Bossuet crouched next to him, panting hard. Jehan was mere feet away from them, just outside, so close they could be touching were it not for the wall between them. Bahorel removed his ear from the door. "Are you armed?" he whispered.

Bossuet shook his head in response. There had not been time to grab his firearm. He was lazing about with Grantaire when he heard the harsh alarm in his head, a sound he had never heard before but knew immediately to be a call from Enjolras. Usually the man would comm him beforehand, but in this case he had not, and so Bossuet had jumped up immediately, leaving Grantaire calling out behind him. "I don't know, Grantaire, I have to go, something is wrong!" he had yelled back into the darkness of the connecting corridor.

Bahorel released the magazine of his pistol and counted the rounds. Five. Good enough. "I'll open the door. Jehan should be just outside. Grab him and pull him in, and I'll cover you." He replaced the magazine with a click.

A quick nod from Bossuet, a sharp intake of breath, and Bahorel (having already unbolted the locks) gripped the door handle and pushed it open. Bossuet sprang out immediately. A small figure lay collapsed on the ground, and Bossuet turned him over so he was facing upwards.

He felt for a moment as though he could not breathe. It was Jehan, yes, but his face...his face was unrecognizable. He knew him only from the clothes he wore and his small frame. The young man was bruised and bloody, limbs twisted at odd angles, the fingers of his right hand sticking out in all directions.

"Bossuet!"

There was a gunshot and the pavement at his feet splintered. Bahorel returned fire as Bossuet hooked his arms underneath Jehan's and dragged him back in through the door. Bahorel slammed it behind them and bolted all four locks.

"What the hell took you so long; you could have been shot--"

Bahorel's eyes fell upon Jean Prouvaire and the color immediately drained from his face. "Mother of God..."

"Let's get him back," Bossuet said, and began to lift the boy, but stopped when Jehan let out a terrible, feeble cry.

Bahorel crouched down next to him. "Jehan, it's all right, you're safe. You're home." He looked up at Bossuet, then back at Jehan. "We have to go now, they're right outside, we need to get you back to base quickly."

Jehan didn't respond. He was conscious, but barely. Bahorel stood. "Let me carry him," he said to Bossuet, handing off his pistol. "He's light enough. I think his ribs are broken. It will be less painful for him than if both of us take him together." Bossuet consented wordlessly, and helped to put Jehan in a position where Bahorel could pick him up.

Another awful noise left Jehan's broken lips when Bahorel lifted him, but the larger man made a comforting noise, and murmured something Bossuet couldn't hear into Jehan's ear. "Come on," he then said to Bahorel, "You first. I'll need your help getting him down that goddamn ladder."

 

* * *

 

Enjolras paced, one arm folded across his chest and the other at his mouth. Bossuet and Bahorel were on their way back with Jehan, and Bossuet had commed in advance that he was badly hurt and they should prep the med room.

Prep the med room? How does one prep the med room, exactly? Feuilly did what he could and cleared space on the countertop, sprayed disinfectant on the operating table and pulled things out of drawers -- bandages, a scalpel, needle and thread, tweezers, cotton. He didn't know what he was doing. This was Combeferre's domain, but Combeferre was not there, and with Enjolras basically useless as he was lost in his thoughts, Feuilly took it upon himself to do what he could.

Courfeyrac stood outside the med room. His eyes were fixed down the corridor, waiting for the three men to appear. "Why would they let him go?" he asked of no one in particular. Enjolras didn't respond. Feuilly opened another drawer and pulled out miscellaneous items he did not know the uses for.

"It doesn't matter," he said, inspecting some sort of medical instrument. "Best not to think of it."

"It does matter, Feuilly," Courfeyrac retorted. "None of this makes sense. This just isn't how they operate. You've seen it before, Enjolras. They go in, they take whoever lets them and they kill whoever fights back. You don't see them again. They just disappear." Courfeyrac paced a bit, one hand thumbing the edge of the bandage around his bicep. "They don't just let you go."

Enjolras stopped pacing. "No," he said quietly. "No, they don't."

There were footsteps down the corridor, and the three men perked up. "Bossuet?" Courfeyrac called into the darkness. "Bahorel?"

They appeared in the dim light, first Bossuet, then Bahorel with Jehan in his arms, carrying him as one would carry a sleeping child to their bed. Courfeyrac's gaze fell on Jehan's broken face, and he couldn't stop the tears that burned in his eyes. "Oh, Jehan..."

Bahorel pushed past him and into the med room. He placed Jehan as gingerly as he could onto the operating table. Jehan was still conscious, his breath ragged and blood pooling slightly in the corner of his mouth. One eyebrow was split open and would have bled into his vision had his eye not been swollen shut. His nose was broken, his hair had been torn out of his scalp in patches, and angry purple bruises that resembled fingerprints dotted his neck.

"What do we do?" Feuilly asked. "Combeferre..."

Bossuet stepped past him and eyed the instruments and the odd assortment of supplies Feuilly had pulled out. "Cut his shirt off, Feuilly, his ribs are broken and they need to be set," he said, then added, "Be gentle." Feuilly pulled a knife from his belt and went straight to work. Bossuet fingered the needle and thread, then turned to Enjolras. "I've observed Joly at work, I assisted him once or twice," he said, not mentioning his assistance added up to little more than handing off instruments and holding the patient down when things got particularly painful. "I will do what I can for Jehan, with your permission."

Enjolras simply nodded his consent and Bossuet continued to take stock of what they had, opening drawers here and there. "Have we any sedatives?"

A small voice rasped out, "Gone." It was Jehan. All heads - Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Feuilly - turned to him.

"Combeferre told you this?" Enjolras asked. Jehan did not respond. Enjolras turned to Bossuet. "Combeferre only went out for medical supplies and bullets. He must have needed sedatives as well."

Courfeyrac stared at the floor. He remembered Combeferre had offered him painkillers after he had been shot. He now realized Combeferre knew he would refuse and only asked out of kindness, to comfort him.

Bossuet began to scrub his hands in the sink. "It won't be pleasant," he said. Courfeyrac wondered if he meant it wouldn't be pleasant for Jehan, or it wouldn't be pleasant for them to witness. Both, perhaps.

From the doorway, unseen and ignored by all until this very moment, a voice rang with clear intent, "I have something."

For the second time, all heads - Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Bossuet, and Feuilly - turned to the speaker. This time however, it was Grantaire.

He took a few steps straight to Enjolras. Grantaire dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a single white object, small and mostly cylindrical, with twisted ends. A joint. Enjolras stared at it, then shifted his sight to meet Grantaire’ eyes. "This will help with the pain?"

Grantaire managed a sad sort of smirk. "Always does," he replied. "At the very least it may just knock him out. Never gotten Prouvaire stoned, so I wouldn't know. Worth a shot, though. With your permission, of course."

Enjolras considered it for a moment. Seeing no other option, he nodded his approval, and Grantaire kept their eyes locked for a few seconds before turning to the operating table where Jehan lay.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He then stood near Jehan's head and placed a gentle hand on the boy. He leaned down close to him and softly spoke, "I'll do all the work, little Jehan. You just breathe."

Fire, flare, breath. Grantaire collected the smoke in his mouth, but he did not inhale. Instead he gently parted Jehan's lips and softly he blew thick smoke over the boy's mouth and nose.

Courfeyrac stood on the other side of the operating table, and he placed a hand on Prouvaire's chest. "Breathe in, Jehan," he said softly, and Jehan, though his eyes were shut and he didn't respond otherwise - inhaled.

The process repeated until the joint was spent. Grantaire tossed it on the floor and crushed the still-burning ember with his boot. Jehan no longer stirred but rather lay still, and Bossuet pricked his leg with a needle. Nothing. He was out.

Bossuet inhaled and exhaled a few times to steady himself. The task at hand was daunting, and he wasn't sure he even knew what he was doing. But for Jehan, he would try. "Enjolras, will you stay?" The blond man leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest: yes. "Good. Everyone else, out."

The four other men filed out of the med room wordlessly, Grantaire the last to exit. Before he did, he stopped when Enjolras' voice broke the silence, softer and kinder than Grantaire had ever heard it before. "Thank you, Grantaire."

He didn't turn. Instead he gritted his teeth, raked a hand through his tangled black curls, and took his leave.


	10. Chapter 10

On the first day, he bled. The knife had cut a deep tear into the flesh behind his ear, and though he tore off his sleeve and held it firmly to the wound, he could not stop the slow but steady flow of red. After a while of mild panic masked by a light-headedness he knew was no good sign, he pulled off his right shoe and dug into it with his free hand. He ripped the sole from the shoe and pulled out what he had been searching for - three crinkled bills always hidden there.

He made noise; he shouted through the bars on the door of his cell, he called out to any person near. The guard was easy enough to bribe for a needle and surgical thread, especially considering the absurd amount of money he held in his fingers.

So on that first day, he blindly stitched his own flesh back together, cursing and hissing and biting down on the bloody fabric of the sleeve he had torn away.

On the second day he sat alone in his cell. No guards came to harass him, no man stood watch outside his door. He was simply left alone. He sat in thought, and he slept curled up in the corner, and he recited bits of text in his head to pass the time. His stomach made angry noises, and his throat screamed for water, but no sustenance was brought to him. It was awful, lonely, maddening.

On the third day he was brought a heel of bread and a tin cup half-full of water. He wanted to save the bread, but he was far too hungry and finished it off before he really knew what he was doing. He took a few sips of the water and left the rest in the cup on the floor. A man could live for much longer without food than he could without water, this he knew, and he wasn't sure if he was being held for a reason or if they were just trying to kill him slowly. The bastards. Best to save the water.

On the fourth day they beat him. They asked him no questions, which he realized with a strange clarity between kicks to the stomach. How odd. He expected to be interrogated and tortured, but none of that had occurred. It had to, though. It always did. Men who had been released from detention centers such as this one after serving petty crimes had attested to that; the sounds of a man in agony in a neighboring cell, they said, were enough to drive one mad.

Combeferre found himself bitterly wondering when his torture would occur.

On the fifth day he awoke to the sound of footfall in the corridor outside his cell. He stood as the door was unlocked and opened, and a hunched figure was pushed into the room and immediately crumpled to the ground. Combeferre held his stance against the wall and eyed the guard at the door as it was shut and locked once again.

Immediately he dropped to the floor and put a hand on the young man. He felt him tremble slightly at his touch. A small hand - Jehan's hand - grasped out for his. Combeferre took it, and put himself in a better position on the floor to pull him gently into his arms. There he stayed for a while, never looking up, grasping Combeferre's arm with one hand. At times he let out a choked sob, and Combeferre simply held him tighter.

After a time Jehan looked up. Their eyes met, and then surveyed the damage on each other's faces. Jehan's expression softened and Combeferre felt relief at the sight of it. As Jehan straightened and Combeferre was about to inquire about the tooth that was absent from the youth's mouth, his eyes fell on Jehan's mangled right hand. Without thinking further he reached out and gently pulled his wrist towards him to inspect the damage there. Each finger was broken, some further down than others, and twisted in odd directions. Jehan's hand trembled, and when Combeferre gently touched a finger in order to inspect it further, a hiss of pain escaped the poet's lips.

Combeferre did not have what he needed to set the fractures and ease the pain, and so instead he pulled Jehan back into his arms and held him again.

They stayed that way for some time until the cell door was once again unlocked and opened. Everything happened very quickly then - Jehan was pulled away from him, he was forced back against the wall and two guards of the Watch beat Jean Prouvaire bloody. Combeferre was hardly aware of his own voice, yelling and shouting and pleading for them to stop, that they were going to kill him, that they should beat him instead.

He felt as though he could feel every kick they landed in Jehan's ribs, he could feel the boy's nose break and taste the blood that no doubt ran down the back of his throat. Jehan's cries were his cries; his pleas to cease were Combeferre's.

Were it not for the leather-gloved hands keeping Combeferre pinned firmly against the wall, he was certain his anger and despair at the destruction of his friend's body would drive him to destroy every man in that cell with his bare hands.

It was over as quickly as it had begun, and Jehan was taken out of his cell. Combeferre ran to the door, screaming, pounding on the steel until his fists were swollen and bruised.

He slid down to the floor, exhausted, his throat raw from shouting, and he stayed there.

Combeferre had wondered when he was to be tortured. His forced viewing of Jean Prouvaire's agony was his answer.

 

* * *

 

 

Several hours had passed since Bahorel had carried Jehan back to the safety of their underground headquarters. Bossuet had done his best to fix some of the damage that had been done, but his knowledge of anything medical past first aid was simply not as great as Combeferre's or Joly's. As Jehan remained unconscious, Bossuet cleaned and disinfected shallow cuts, scrubbed dirt out of broken skin, and even stitched Jehan's eyebrow back together, crude though the stitching was.

He felt out which ribs were broken, and after deciding none could really be set and would have to heal on their own, he circled bandages firmly around Jehan's torso with Enjolras' aid. Bossuet fashioned makeshift splints for each of Jehan's broken fingers, and he gently did his best to align the swollen digits and keep them straight enough that perhaps when they were healed, Jehan would be able to move them all properly.

Enjolras had remained mostly silent throughout all this; his thoughts raced. Why indeed had Jehan been given back to them? (He certainly didn't escape, the shots fired at Bossuet as he went to fetch the boy from outside were evidence against any idea that Jehan had made his way back alone.) Why would the Watch execute one man and return the other in such a pitiful state? What was to become of them all, hiding there in the dark underground, their ambition to return freedom to the people of France now turned to dust?

Bossuet was doing his best to clean dried blood from Jehan's skin when the young man returned to consciousness. Enjolras' thoughts immediately dissipated, and he stepped to the side of the operating table and took Jehan's un-mangled hand in his own. Jehan's one unswollen eye darted about, focused on nothing, confused and frightened.

"You're home, Jehan," Enjolras said soothingly, and he gently rubbed his other hand on top of Jehan's. "You're safe."

After a few moments Jehan's eye caught Enjolras’ and they remained there as he panted, each breath panicked and raspy. "Enjolras."

The man nodded and did not break Jehan's gaze. "You were taken prisoner, Jehan. Have you memory of that?"

Prouvaire nodded. His wide eye still fixed itself on Enjolras', and he said nothing. "You were returned here just a few hours ago. Do you remember that?" Another nod. "Jehan, I know you are in pain, but it is very important that you tell me, if you know, why the Watch let you go."

Finally Jehan broke the stare, and something suddenly stirred in him, driving him into another panic. "You shouldn't have brought me back here," he said, pulling his hand from Enjolras' gentle grasp. "You shouldn't have done that. Oh, God!" Jehan let out a terrible sob, but he had no tears left.

"Jehan, it's all right, nothing is going to--"

"They're tracking me, Enjolras!"

The sudden realization hit him with the force of an iron bar to the head. Of course. It was so painfully simple, only a man with an exceptionally dim wit would fall for it.

Or a man who cared too deeply about his comrades.

Jehan continued, "They're tracking the frequency in my chip. That's why they left mine in but cut out Combeferre's--"

"Combeferre?" This time it was Bossuet who spoke, though Enjolras straightened. "Combeferre is alive?"

"I think so, yes, he was this morning."

Bossuet couldn't help but smile, despite the situation at hand. Enjolras stared at the floor. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry with joy that his most dear friend still lived, but the plan for the next few hours he was trying to compose in his head blocked him from doing anything but think. If the Watch was indeed tracking Jehan's chip, they would no doubt already be underground. If they had come through any of the entrances les Amis used they would have been notified, as long as the alarms weren't cut.

The sewers were a dark and terrible maze that would be the grave of any man who entered without navigation. Though they knew where Jehan was, it would still take them quite some time to get there--with all luck, that is.

Enjolras turned to Bossuet. "Gather everyone, quickly, and Grantaire too. There is much to do and not enough time to do it."

Bossuet gave a nod and set off immediately. Enjolras could not relax, but he leaned against the operating table and once again put his hand on Jehan's. "What are you thinking, Enjolras?" the younger man asked.

A long pause. "I think, Jehan, we are to evacuate. Tonight."


	11. Chapter 11

_We are but seven men_.

The words still rang in his ears minutes after he had spoken them. Seven men against a thousand. It was a losing battle, their liberation movement; it had been from the very start. Combeferre had warned him of this early on, and again a week prior. Still, he expected to fight this battle to the death, not to send his friends deeper into the sewers, fleeing like terrified rats.

They had dispersed, the five others, to their tasks. Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Feuilly would follow the slow decline of the sewer tunnels down as far as they went, towards the river. If their maps were current, they could exit there and follow the river south until they reached the safe house, where Joly and Musichetta were presumably waiting. It was the quickest way to safety.

Bossuet and Jehan would take a longer, more roundabout way. If the Watch was still tracking Jehan, Enjolras thought it wise for them to linger in the maze of sewer tunnels for a longer amount of time, throwing their pursuers off and giving the rest more time to escape. Jehan could barely walk without significant pain and would grow weak very quickly, but Enjolras had clapped him on the shoulder firmly and said in a low voice meant only for Prouvaire's ears, "I ask too much of you, Jehan, I know. But for all our sakes, you must do this. You are more than capable of this. I have faith in you." And Jehan had smiled, showing his missing teeth and bloody gums, and placed his uninjured left hand on top of Enjolras'. His strength gave Enjolras strength.

That left only himself and Grantaire. The other man, not one to usually join in on their missions but given no choice this time around, had volunteered to stay behind with Enjolras and destroy their headquarters. There wasn't enough time to delete the files on the main hub, and no man wished for his personal items to be touched by Watch hands. Once the rest were at a safe distance and had secured the tunnels they traveled, Enjolras and Grantaire would blow it all to hell, and then catch up with Courfeyrac, Bahorel, and Feuilly. Once the five regrouped, Bahorel would circle back to meet up with Bossuet and Jehan while the rest continued on to the safe house.

It was a quick and messy plan, but it was the only thing that came to Enjolras' mind. If he had his way they would all leave together, but seeing as the Watch had a firm grasp on Jehan's location it would be unwise for them all to be in the same place at the same time. Once the hub was destroyed, they would not be able to communicate with each other - their chips would be useless without a central network. Enjolras hoped with all his being his plan didn't condemn Bossuet and Jehan to a terrible fate.

Grantaire stood near the main hub, a cigarette between his lips, fingers trailing over buttons and screens. "Such a waste," he said as he looked with pity over the technology. "Feuilly's been working on this for years, do we really have to destroy it?"

"We have to destroy everything," Enjolras replied. He crossed the large room to where the generator had been installed, powered by large fuel cells. "Help me with these."

Cigarette still between his lips, Grantaire joined Enjolras and pulled one large cell from the generator. The lights dimmed slightly but did not go out. They carried it between them back to the hub, and then went back for a second. "We leave the third," Enjolras said after they had moved the second cell into the housing corridor. "It'll blow once the other two do, but until then we need light."

The lights in the tunnel had dimmed so much so that it was difficult to see. As Grantaire tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his boot, Enjolras opened a metal case and pulled out two charges and a detonator. He handed the charges to Grantaire ("One on each cell." "I'm not an idiot, Enjolras.") and plugged the detonator into his datapad to program it to set off the two charges.

Grantaire returned just as Enjolras unplugged the detonator and turned the safety on. Enjolras looked up at him, blue eyes piercing through the dim of the tunnel, and inhaled deeply. "Let's go, then."

He led the way down the corridor. The two walked briskly in silence. Every few meters the dying electric light shone on their faces, then shadows surrounded them once again. Without all three fuel cells the electricity would not last for very long, and if they were caught underground when it went out, they would be trapped in total darkness.

The two men made their way through narrow corridors and larger tunnels, past grates that blocked other passages and underneath stone archways. Eventually they reached a fork - north to the city streets, south towards the river. Enjolras stopped at the fork, though Grantaire started down the southern tunnel.

"Enjolras." He didn't turn. Grantaire took a few steps back towards him. "Hey. Asshole. It's this way." He pointed a thumb down into the dark. "We gotta go."

Enjolras didn't look back at him. Several moments passed before he spoke, "Go, Grantaire, quickly. I'll wait twenty minutes before I detonate the charges."

Grantaire didn't comprehend what he had just heard. He stood there, his mouth slightly open, confusion twisting his features. "I don't get it. We're meeting up with Feuilly and Courf and Bahorel."

"You are. I am not."

"Where the hell are you going, then?"

Enjolras finally turned back to him. "Goodbye, Grantaire."

With that, he turned back and made his way quickly through the northern tunnel. Grantaire stood rooted there in shock for a few moments before he began to follow him. "Hey! Wait up! What the hell do you think you're playing at?"

He caught up with Enjolras before long, who did not slow his pace. "Please, Grantaire, if you don't go now you will be killed."

"I don't understand." Grantaire tripped over a loose stone and swore loudly. He picked up his pace and walked quickly behind Enjolras. "Why aren't you coming with me?"

"I am not going with you because there is a chance I can save Combeferre's life."

Grantaire's heart sank in his chest. He understood immediately. Enjolras intended to give himself up for Combeferre's release. "You're going to offer an exchange? You for him?"

"That is the plan, yes."

"They don't play by the rules, Enjolras, you know that. They'll kill you, and they'll kill him, and now that I'm following your stupid ass they'll kill me too."

"Turn around, then."

Enjolras found himself suddenly grabbed and thrown against the wall of the narrow tunnel, Grantaire's forearm against his chest, pinning him there. The detonator fell to the floor, unbroken.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Are you fucking insane? You're going to get shot for nothing. He's gone, Enjolras, he's beyond your help, and that really fucking sucks, but surrendering to those motherfuckers is counterproductive and just plain fucking stupid."

He knew with sudden clarity that there was no way to talk Enjolras out of what he intended to do. Only breath flowed between them for several seconds before Grantaire broke. "When are you going to get it into your head?" he demanded, pushing his arm against Enjolras firmly before releasing his hold and grabbing a fistful of the man's jacket instead. His eyes stung from the unwelcome tears that had suddenly formed there. "I've never given a shit about your Grand Cause, or your Glorious Mission, or whatever the hell you want to call it. I give a shit about _you_ , you ass. I've followed you for years and I'm sure as hell not gonna stop now. Not at the end."

Grantaire suddenly realized how loudly he had been yelling, how tightly he gripped Enjolras' lapel. He let go of Enjolras and stepped back, his vibrant greens never straying from those impossible blues. "So wherever you go, I go too, and if that means we're both dead men, so be it. My blood is your blood."

There was quiet, then. Enjolras stared at Grantaire through the dim light, studying his face, trying his best to understand. Grantaire knew it was a lost cause. He reached down with graceful fingers and picked up the detonator.

There were so many more words caught in his throat. He wanted to say them, he had to say them, there would be no other time to say them ever again. But he couldn't. Instead he reached for Enjolras' hand, pulled it towards him, and placed the detonator in his palm.

Enjolras looked down at the device in his hand, then back up at Grantaire. "If there is any chance I can save him, Grantaire, I am going to take it." With his free hand, he reached across and touched Grantaire's arm. His hands were full of purpose, yet unnaturally gentle. "If you follow me, there is no turning back. You must be absolutely sure of this, Grantaire."

To die tonight would surely be painful, but to live without him would be utter agony. Grantaire set his jaw and placed his hand upon Enjolras'. "I am sure, Enjolras."

The dim light several feet away cast shadows across their faces, but Grantaire could swear he saw something of a smile trail over Enjolras' lips. The hand on his arm squeezed slightly, then lowered, leaving the ghost of its presence deep under Grantaire's skin. "Very well. Let's go, then, we're running out of time."

Enjolras continued down the dark tunnel, and Grantaire followed close behind.


	12. Chapter 12

There are some things a man simply cannot withstand.

He kept his silence when they burned his skin with a red-hot iron, searing angry black marks into his flesh. He clenched his eyes tight and screamed to drown out the sickening hiss of the burns on his chest and arms and legs. He screamed, but he didn't give them the answers they sought.

He remained resolute when they gripped his hair tightly in their hands and plunged his head underwater, unwavering as he struggled and kicked and choked on water when all the air had been expelled from his lungs. They pulled him up, repeated their questions, and when he did not answer, thrust him down once again.

He did not give way even when they bound his wrists down and forced iron nails under his fingernails. Stinging pain radiated through his fingers and up his wrists, and the more his hands shook the hotter the pain burned. Still, he did not answer, he did not give in, he did not yield.

Several hours passed after that final torture, and though Combeferre wished to sleep, they would not allow him to. Every time he closed his eyes for more than a few moments, a loud alarm rang into his cell. He was broken and exhausted, his fingers bled and the burns on his body stung.

But he would not, he could not falter. What was the point of having brothers if you were to betray them? He liked to think they would do him the same courtesy. Enjolras would, certainly. Courfeyrac as well. The rest? They would. Of course they would. They had to. They _had_ to.

He did not know how much time passed before the door to his cell was opened once again. They brought a chair with restraints and dragged him to it. He did not resist; there was no point in trying to escape whatever they had in store for him. He simply complied, and hoped and prayed they would let him die soon enough.

The sharp pinprick in his arm almost went unnoticed. What was one needle in his skin compared to what had already been done to him? But he did feel the chill that radiated from the point of insertion, and after a minute or two he felt...pleasant. Calm. Combeferre closed his eyes, his heartbeat slow and loud and lovely. He was content. He was pleased.

"Combeferre."

He felt his eyes open lazily, though he did not will them to. They focused on the officer sitting in front of him - a kind-looking man with a young face. Combeferre almost liked him.

"Tell me, what is your name?"

Something in the back of his mind told him not to answer, but the words left his lips without his consent. "Alain Combeferre."

"And, tell me, how old are you?"

Again his lips moved, though he did not will it so. "Twenty-five."

"Tell me your mother's name."

"My mother...?"

Her eyes. Warm, brown, loving. She looked down at him, a halo of sunlight around her hair. She smiled at him. She reached out her hand and laid it upon his head, softly tangling her fingers around a tress.

"Your mother's name, Alain. Tell me."

She was gone. "Aurelie."

Combeferre couldn't feel his fingers or toes. Warmth radiated from his center, outwards through his veins. He didn't feel any pain, which made him happy. He wanted to be compliant. He wanted to be helpful.

"Now, Alain, I am going to show you a map." The officer before him produced a roll of paper, which he unfurled in front of Combeferre. He recognized it immediately: the old Paris sewer system.

Alarms were going off in the very back of his mind, somewhere deep down clouded by the intense euphoria he felt. The officer continued, "I would like you to show me where one would exit, were they being pursued. Or perhaps if they had to exit very quickly."

 _No. Stop. No_.

Someone had removed the restraint on his right wrist. He reached a hand out to the map, slowly, fingers shaking.

_Stop this. Stop **now**._

His fingers curled back slightly. He didn't want to show them, but at the same time all he wanted to do was point to the three places on the map he knew so well, the three places that had never been found and were always safe. The three places his friends were sure to flock to once they realized they had to evacuate.

He managed to speak, "I don't...I cannot--"

"Of course you can. Just show me, Alain, on the map."

"My friends--"

"Will be taken care of, Alain."

Before he knew what he was doing, Combeferre's index finger was on the paper, right on top of the exit to the river. He moved it twice more, then pulled his hand quickly against his chest, as though he had touched something very hot.

Everything happened in a blur after that: they thanked him, they gave him bread and water, they released him from the chair and left him alone in his cell.

In an hour or so he would come down from the high they gave him. He would curse and pound his fists against the concrete. He would pull at his hair and scream and hate himself for betraying the only people he cared for.

But there are some things a man simply cannot withstand.

 

* * *

 

Follow the decline. Exit to the river. Follow the river. South.

The objectives repeated themselves in his head endlessly as the three men slipped quietly through the tunnels to make their escape. Courfeyrac wanted to stop thinking about it, but something in his head kept on whispering to him.

Follow the decline. Exit to the river. Follow the river. South.

He had never been one to let his fear show. Through all the missions and murder and whatever else he did either on orders or by his own volition, Courfeyrac put on a brave face. Though in truth, he was often terrified. Was it for his own life? His friends'? He couldn't say.

Follow the decline. Exit to the river. Follow the river. South.

"How much time do we have?" Feuilly's voice, though low and quiet, startled both Bahorel and Courfeyrac.

Bahorel inhaled deeply and pressed a button on his watch. It illuminated for a few moments and he glanced at it. "Enjolras said he would give us an hour before detonation, so...fifteen minutes."

Courfeyrac had pulled out his datapad, where a map had been queued up for quick access. "We're almost out," he said. "Path's gotten steeper. Should be just a bit further."

"Let's not waste any more time." Bahorel continued to lead the way down into the darkness.

The quiet descended once again, save the sound of boots on stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter! This will be coming to an end soon enough.  
> I'm on tumblr, so if you are around there, come say hello! actoremergency.tumblr.com


	13. Chapter 13

Everything was happening so quickly, too quickly for him to stop it or change it and everything was happening, _everything_ , all at once and beyond his control.

They had made their escape from the sewers and immediately there were gunshots and yelling, and Bahorel returned fire and sprinted away towards the source of the bullet storm, because of course he did. Feuilly had stepped in front of Courfeyrac and fired several times into the dark as Courfeyrac fumbled with the jammed clasps that kept his sidearm locked into his belt.

Then Feuilly had stopped firing, and Courfeyrac was still fumbling as the other man suddenly fell back onto him. Both men hit the ground hard, and Courfeyrac had half-dragged Feuilly back towards the doorway they had just come from, shielding them both behind the open door.

Now fingers not his own gripped the front of his jacket, knuckles white, and odd pained noises and gasps fell from Feuilly's lips as red, deep dark crimson red blossomed across his ribcage. His other hand grasped at where a bullet had been buried deep above his gut, and his fingers came away painted in blood.

Courfeyrac's grabbed Feuilly's hand and thrust it back onto the wound. He was saying words that spilled from him without his consent: keep pressure here, it's not bad, you're going to be fine, it's really not that bad, keep your hand here Feuilly, you're fine, you're fine.

The shots stopped after a while, and Bahorel was nowhere to be found, disappeared into the night to pursue the men of the Watch who had fired at them. Courfeyrac had gathered the injured man between his legs and held him there, Feuilly's head resting in the crook of his arm. He coughed, and blood settled in the corners of his mouth. He stared upwards, his hand still pressed to the wound, Courfeyrac's hand atop his.

Feuilly let out a sob, an awful sound that pulled tears to Courfeyrac's unwilling eyes. He grasped Feuilly tighter. A terrible feeling sat in his center, a desire for death to come quickly for his friend, and he gritted his teeth and gently pulled Feuilly's hand away from the wound. He felt his fingers grip his own impossibly tight, blood slipping between them, and he gripped back as a last act of comfort to a man in pain, bleeding out in his lap.

More words left Courfeyrac's lips, unbidden and out of his control, "Everything is fine, I've got you, it's going to be okay, it'll be okay. It'll be okay."

"Courf--" Feuilly choked on his words--no, on his blood--and he coughed until his coughs turned to choked sobs.

Time was cruel, and passed in an agonizing crawl as Feuilly slowly died. Courfeyrac held him until he went limp and his heart stopped. He remained alive for several seconds after that, and then his lips parted, his grip on Courfeyrac's hand slacked, and he was gone.

Stunned, unable to move or think, Courfeyrac held him still, staring down into Feuilly's eyes but finding no light there. The man felt suddenly heavy against him, and he was aware now of the heat that soaked into his clothing. Feuilly's blood had ceased pumping from the wound, but still flowed lazily and seeped into the fabric of Courfeyrac's jacket. He pulled his hand away from Feuilly's suddenly, as if it were something too hot to touch, and without thinking he ran it through his hair and gripped there, spreading the blood over his forehead and through his tangled hair.

Someone was talking to him then, he could hear a voice but couldn't take his eyes away from Feuilly's. A strong hand grabbed his arm and his head snapped up. Bahorel looked down at him, a fire burning in his eyes. He too was covered in blood, but it hadn't soaked into his clothing from a wound. Rather it dotted his face and his shirt and his arms, splattered there--another man's blood.

In one hand he gripped Courfeyrac's arm, in the other was a large knife, also covered in blood. "Courfeyrac, we gotta go."

He couldn't move yet. "He's dead. Bahorel, he's _dead_ , he was shot and he bled out, I can’t--"

With a gentleness uncharacteristic of him, Bahorel took Feuilly's body from Courfeyrac's arms and laid him on the ground. He closed the dead man's eyes with his fingertips, then turned to Courfeyrac. "The ones who shot at us are dead, but there will be more coming," he said, his voice soft, but with purpose. "We need to run, Courfeyrac. Can you do that?"

Courfeyrac nodded and willed himself to stand. Bahorel reverently removed Feuilly's belt and fastened it around his own waist; they could not spare the bullets and supplies. He turned and scanned the ground, then stepped away a few paces and picked up Feuilly's pistol from the mud. "Come on."

"Wait." Courfeyrac remembered with sudden clarity an hour or so prior, when he had glanced over to see Enjolras speaking privately with Feuilly as preparations were being made to evacuate. He had only watched them long enough to see Enjolras place a piece of paper in Feuilly's hand, and he had nodded and thrust the paper into the front of his vest.

Courfeyrac pulled the folded paper from the inside pocket of Feuilly's vest. He unfolded it and scanned over the first words written at the top of the paper in Combeferre's handwriting, legible even in the dark: _Dearest Jolllly_. Much of the rest of the paper was stained red. Courfeyrac folded it back up and placed it in his pocket.

Enjolras had charged Feuilly with the delivery of Combeferre's last, unfinished letter to Joly. Courfeyrac would see it done in his stead.

He steeled himself, then allowed his eyes to meet Bahorel's. "Okay. Let's go."

 

* * *

 

Time passed in eerie silence as the two men continued towards their destination: the exit they known both to their group and to the Watch. The same one Courfeyrac had returned to when they shot him, the same one the Watch had left a bleeding and broken Jehan to be discovered.

Grantaire nervously checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was well past the point that they had all agreed Enjolras would set off the charges at their abandoned headquarters. He said nothing, however. If Enjolras wanted to blow the place, he would have done it by now. He had to have his reasons, and Grantaire wasn't one to question them.

The power underground had all but failed. The electric lights that dotted the tunnel walls gave off one final weak flicker before dimming to nothing.

Enjolras, ever prepared, already had his torch in hand. A long, bright beam lit the stone floor in front he and Grantaire. They walked for a few steps in the darkness before Enjolras abruptly stopped.

Behind him, Grantaire took a few more steps until he too halted. "What is it?"

The blond man turned his head to Grantaire. In the darkness it was difficult to make out his facial features (though even in the light of day it was often impossible to read Enjolras by his expression alone). "I believe we've fallen for a very clever trap."

He handed Grantaire the torch and crouched down, removing his pack and laying it on the floor. As he unzipped the pack and began to dig inside of it, Grantaire took the unspoken suggestion and shined the light down into the pack. "Trap? What trap?"

"I can't believe I didn't put it together before," Enjolras muttered with a hint of self-loathing. He continued to dig around in the pack as Grantaire began to panic.

"Enjolras, what trap?"

He looked up at him then, and his eyes focused on Grantaire as if he had forgotten he was even there in the first place. There was a beat before he began to explain, "Don't you think it's odd we haven't run into any of the Watch down here yet? Jehan said they were tracking him. They dropped him back here several hours ago. Surely they would have made some progress in getting to our location, don't you think? A little more light here, Grantaire."

Grantaire shifted the angle of the torch and stared down at him as Enjolras continued to forage through his pack. "What of it?"

"They aimed to drive us out," Enjolras continued. "To get us so scared we'd evacuate and come to them so they wouldn't have to come to us. Ah." He had found what he was searching for and held them up into the light: several smaller charges and another detonator. "If I am correct, and I probably am, there will be a unit waiting for us outside."

He zipped the pack and stood, putting his arms through the straps and examining the charges. Grantaire continued to shine the torch. A cool dread sat pitted in his center, tearing away at the relative calm he had been feeling. "But what of the others? Bossuet and Jehan, and Courfeyrac and Feuilly and Bahorel...Enjolras, we have no way of warning--"

Grantaire could almost hear the sound of Enjolras' composure suddenly shattering. "They're fucked, Grantaire, all right? They're absolutely fucked because I didn't see this coming, and I should have, I should have seen this coming. Everything is falling apart because I failed to see--I failed to put it together."

Two pairs of eyes, locked on each other in the dark. Terrifying, uncomfortable and horrible, but neither had the courage to look away. The sound of nothing rang in their ears.

Enjolras was never one to snap. Always calm, always collected, always breathing and holding things steady. Grantaire had never seen him so undone, and it chilled him. Enjolras was solid and unwavering. He wasn't shattered or upset or lost. He wasn't this.

It was Grantaire who broke the silence. "Tell me what you're going to do with the charges, Enjolras."

Something in those eyes flickered even through the darkness. Something strange and familiar--fear and excitement, terror and triumph. A plan, the terrible plan of one with nothing left to do and everything to lose.

"Grantaire." After all this time, hearing his name spoken from those lips never failed to send a spark directly through the man who thought he didn't believe in anything. "I need your help. I don't want to ask this of you, God, I don't, but I must."

"Ask it, then."

Enjolras couldn't find the words he wanted. _Of all times to be rendered speechless…_

The charges were in Grantaire's free hand before he even realized Enjolras was holding them out to him. The other man unzipped his jacket, showing the bullet resistant vest he wore underneath. Grantaire suddenly, reluctantly understood.

Blood ran cold as ice through Grantaire's veins. He didn't speak. Instead, he handed the torch back to Enjolras, and set to carefully attaching the charges to his vest.

As he worked in silence, the slightest tremble prevailed underneath Grantaire's fingertips--the fear of a man who saw the end coming faster and faster towards him, a man powerless to protect the ones he loved the most, a man who saw his imminent death and aimed to take as many with him as possible--including, Grantaire realized with a pang of something between sadness and excitement that he had never felt before, Grantaire as well.

Grantaire pretended he couldn't feel Enjolras' fear. He bit his lip and worked quickly. At one point the light of the torch began to stray, and without looking up Grantaire grasped Enjolras' hand that held the torch and moved it in line.

Enjolras' fingers were icy cold, and Grantaire kept his hand on them longer than courtesy would dictate. He willed his gaze upwards. The glare of the torch blurred most of Enjolras' face, but he could still see his eyes.

He didn't want to, but he dared the question just the same, "Does it have to be like this?"

Enjolras' eyes searched Grantaire's, maybe wondering if the man was serious, maybe searching for something there that would allow him to say no and tear the charges away from his chest and run from this. Grantaire couldn't be sure which.

And then he felt it: the cool, soft touch of graceful fingers on his face. The pad of Enjolras' thumb traced a soft line across Grantaire's cheekbone, and Grantaire was frozen where he stood. Strange, to be caressed so softly in the dark by the man he revered the most, an explosive charge gripped in one hand.

"I don't know," Enjolras said after what felt like hours. "But I fear it less, knowing you are here with me."

It was enough. After all that time, here at the end of everything, it was enough.

Grantaire removed his hand from Enjolras’, tipped his head away from the cool touch on his cheek, and set himself to attaching the last of the explosive charges.

Strange indeed, helping to destroy the man he adored.


	14. Chapter 14

Every single step was pain, bright red and hot in his bones. Everything hurt -- his legs, his ribs, his fingers and his head and his feet. Bossuet had one arm around his waist to support him, and Jehan's arm was slung over his shoulders, his wrist gripped tightly by the other man, who also held an electric torch to light their way.

He didn't know how much longer he could last. He couldn't even tell how much time had passed since they left base. His vision swam, and twice now he had gone completely limp, only to hear Bossuet's gentle but worried voice in his ear, "Jehan, you have to stay awake. It's not much further now. You have to keep moving."

"Bossuet, am I going to die?"

The question sounded much louder than it must have been. Bossuet blinked and fought very hard to keep the two of them moving. "Someday, yes, you're going to die, Jehan," he said. "But I don't think that will be tonight."

"I feel like I am going to die."

Bossuet gritted his teeth so hard his jaw began to ache. "We just need to make it to the safe house, then Joly will fix you properly and give you medicine. You won't die. If you were going to die you would have done it already, hmm?"

Jehan didn't respond. His eyelids fluttered, and he felt light and dizzy. He opened his mouth to speak, and the words tumbled from his lips full of breath and fear, "I'm so sorry."

Once again Jehan's feet gave out underneath him, and Bossuet gripped the young man and lowered him in order to ease his fall. For a few seconds fear took over; he gently laid Jehan on the stones below and grabbed his wrist to feel for a pulse.

It was there, low and weak inside of him, but it was there just the same. Jehan still lived, but his face was pale in the dim light and a sheen of sweat covered his brow. His fingers were cold, and Bossuet could barely make out his chest rising and lowering.

Jehan was indeed going to die, if he did not hurry.

He took a quick glance at the map queued up on his data pad. At some point they had taken several wrong turns, and their planned exit was too far away. They would have to make do with the next closest, the one that opened to the river. Courfeyrac and Feuilly and Bahorel would have left that way, so whether or not it was safe, they would meet up with them eventually.

The data pad safely stowed and his small torch settled between his teeth, Bossuet took Jehan's wrists in his hands and lifted him. He slung the smaller young man over his shoulder, thankful that Jehan was surprisingly underweight.

With time certainly against him, Bossuet steeled himself, gritting his teeth over the handle of the torch and taking in a deep breath. He willed his feet to move, and hoped with all his being it was not too late to save the unconscious young man he carried.

 

* * *

 

It was all very surreal, Grantaire thought, witnessing Enjolras in his prime, commanding the situation with an unbridled fervor. It was actually, really, truly happening: the radiant young man, his arms outstretched, standing in front of ten or fifteen men of the Watch, his jacket open and exposing the explosives attached to his body.

He was negotiating. The son of a bitch was actually negotiating and they hadn't been shot and they were still alive and Enjolras was _negotiating_.

"All I ask is my man returned alive," he was saying, his voice clear and loud across the stretch of empty street that separated the two men from the many cops. "You bring me Alain Combeferre and we all live."

"And once you have your man, what then?"

He hasn't thought that far ahead, Grantaire thought. It was true, but Enjolras spoke anyway, "Then my friend here will help me out of these explosive charges and we'll talk surrender."

There would be no surrender, Grantaire knew. Once Enjolras was no longer threatening an explosion powerful enough to take out the entire block, they would all three be killed, Enjolras and Grantaire and Combeferre. But the Watch was moving now, several of them off in one of their vans, towards the detention center.

Grantaire spoke low, through his teeth, "If you indeed have a plan I would very much like to hear it."

Enjolras did not take his eyes from the remaining Watch, their guns still drawn on the two men (though shooting them would mean setting off the charges). Grantaire could almost see his mind working even from the side. "You have the detonator for the sewers, that will be our distraction. Once we have Combeferre, blow the underground and we'll run like hell."

Grantaire had almost forgotten the small detonator clipped to the back of his belt. Enjolras had his own detonator in his hand, one thumb hovering over the button as a constant threat that he was not fucking around.

A thought occurred to Grantaire, however, "What if Combeferre isn't able to run?"

Enjolras did not miss a beat. "Then I will carry him."

Nearly an hour passed in excruciating silence before the van returned. Within moments Combeferre was brought into view, his wrists bound in front of him. He looked exhausted and worn; his face was a mess of bruises and his hands were seemingly dyed red with the amount of blood staining his skin.

Enjolras did not waver. "Send him here."

An officer of the watch held his hand out to the lower-ranking men who were about to comply with Enjolras' demand. "Disarm yourself first."

A smirk played across Enjolras' lips for just a moment. "Sir, do you think me so stupid as to kill my man immediately upon obtaining him? Send him here and I give you my word, I will no longer be a threat."

Combeferre's steps were small and accented with a limp. He never took his eyes off of Enjolras, but Grantaire had difficulty reading the man’s expression. Probably, he thought, due to the fact that his face was all shades of red and purple and black and blue.

It came as quite a surprise to all three men when the first of the shots rang out. Without thinking twice, Grantaire reached to the back of his belt and grabbed the detonator clipped there. He did not hesitate; he switched the fail-safe and smashed his palm onto the button.

The loudest noise he had ever heard thundered for the briefest moment, filling his ears and his chest and his legs, and then he didn’t hear anything but a slight ring in his ears. The ground beneath him trembled, and Grantaire hardly knew what was happening before he felt a firm hand grip his own and _pull_ , and he was running for his life and the ringing in his ears continued.

The hand grasped around his remained there, and when some of Grantaire’s wits returned to him he let his eyes focus on the arm that was attached to the hand, and the man that was attached to the arm. Enjolras kept his grip tightly on Grantaire as their feet carried them faster than what seemed possible, and as Grantaire glanced over he saw that Enjolras’ other hand held a firm grip on Combeferre's sleeve--Combeferre's wrists were still bound in front of him.

Grantaire couldn’t hear what Enjolras was shouting then. He saw his lips move ( _those two absolutely perfect lips_ ) but no sound came from them. Well, it must have been, but all Grantaire could hear was the high-pitched ringing. Enjolras shouted at him again, then took his face away from Grantaire’s and turned his attention back to the streets in front of them.

Eventually the ringing was replaced with the feeling that all sound was coming from a thick fog, a cloudy haze, and a headache. The three men still ran, though Grantaire felt as though his lungs were on fire, and when he looked over at Combeferre he was quite surprised that the man was even still conscious, let alone sprinting. Grantaire put his other hand on Enjolras’ (the hand still gripping his like a vice), and gently tugged.

“Enjolras!” he shouted louder than he intended to.

“Don’t talk, keep running!” Enjolras shouted back at him.

So they ran.

* * *

  
The sight of the small cottage up against the tree line was the most welcome, wonderful, spectacular thing Courfeyrac had ever seen. He was sure of it. He and Bahorel had been running for a few miles, and had finally slowed to a walk when they had reached their destination. It was heaven. It was ecstasy. They were safe.

Bahorel jogged towards the house, and Courfeyrac took an extra moment before following. The night was still, but a gentle breeze shifted the tall grass around his hips and made it difficult not to trip. Courfeyrac was exhausted, but it wasn’t much longer now, not much longer at all.

“Joly!” Bahorel was shouting before he even reached the door. “Joly! Musichetta!”

A light illuminated a window, and the silhouette of a man pulled a curtain aside to investigate the cause of the noise. Immediately the man ran from the window, and a few moments later the door flew open. Joly sprinted from the house and met Bahorel several yards away.

“Bahorel!” he exclaimed, confused and excited and bewildered all at once. “Why didn’t you contact us before you came? Courfeyrac!”

He had finally caught up with Bahorel and breathed heavily several times before Joly’s eyes moved from the blood smeared on his forehead and in his hair, down to the large stain, still wet, covering the front of his jacket. “Jesus Christ, Courfeyrac, you’re bleeding!” He made a motion towards Courfeyrac, but was stopped when the other put a weak hand up.

“Not my blood,” Courfeyrac panted. He felt as if he was going to pass out. Feuilly’s eyes, lifeless, staring at nothing, filled his mind.

Bahorel was kind. He put a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder to steady him, and walked towards the safe house, bidding Joly to follow. “Feuilly is dead,” he said, and Joly stopped walking for just a moment before continuing on. “They were waiting for us—oh, well you don’t know what’s going on, why am I even telling you this, I’ll explain inside.”

The house was the same as it had been when Courfeyrac had last been there five months prior. He had been escorting a group they had liberated. It seemed like ages had passed since then.

Musichetta was already awake and dressed, and she took no time in getting glasses of water for the two disheveled men and placing bread on the table. Courfeyrac knew that the two of them lived as simply as the others did underground, and so he knew the sacrifice involved in offering them their food.

Courfeyrac didn’t say a word as Bahorel told Joly of what had happened in the week or two prior. Musichetta had brought several lit candles and set them on the table. Bahorel’s arm was stretched out on the wood, his hand palm-up in front of Joly, and Courfeyrac was sickened at the sight of a large, deep cut across his palm and fingers. The white of bone showed through the red, bloody flesh, and Courfeyrac suddenly had the answer to a question he hadn’t bothered to ask Bahorel: Where had the large knife come from? He must have been attacked, and grabbed the blade.

Joly was cleaning the wound as Musichetta placed more items on the table – sutures, alcohol, bandages, Joly’s spectacles. It was only once Joly began to stitch the flesh of Bahorel’s hand back together than she turned her attention to Courfeyrac, who stood in the corner of the room, pale, unmoving, speechless.

“I’m going to remove your jacket,” she said to him, and he nodded absently and allowed her to unzip and peel the jacket from his body. The blood stained his shirt underneath, and after a polite, “may I?” Musichetta removed that as well.

She curled her small fingers around Courfeyrac’s and gently pulled him towards a chair away from Bahorel and Joly, who were still in conversation as Joly attended to Bahorel’s wounds and Bahorel took large bites out of a chunk of bread. In between gathering things for Joly, the young woman had filled a small basin with water and tossed a cloth inside, and once she gingerly pushed Courfeyrac down onto the chair, she knelt at his side and began to wipe Feuilly’s blood from his forehead.

She squeezed the cloth into the basin, and the water ran pink.

Courfeyrac stared down, unable to meet her eyes, unable to say anything at all. His hands had balled themselves into fists, and he was trembling suddenly, and unwanted tears welled in his eyes.

And then he was grasping Musichetta, and she was holding his head against her chest, and he was sobbing and speaking absently and shaking. She ran a hand through his hair, murmured comforts to him, held the man as he broke to pieces in her arms.

After a time he looked up at her, his eyes red, and she was staring down at him, her lovely face gentle in the light of the candles. She held her palm out to him, and in the center was a small white tablet ( _when had Joly given her that?_ ), and she kissed his brow and said softly, “Take this and sleep, Courfeyrac.”

And she had a glass of water in her hand then, and he placed the pill on his tongue and drank, the water running cool down into his center, and it was not long before a wave of calm washed over him and his eyelids felt heavy.

Musichetta put him in her bed, placed blankets over him, and brushed her hand over his hair as he closed his eyes. She stayed there, sitting next to the bed with her hand on Courfeyrac’s, stroking his fingers gently with her thumb until he finally let himself sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

He dreamed of Paris before the Fall. He saw her then, before the walls and locked gates, before the Watch. She was beautiful, she was sun bright on his face, she was wine and women, she was his friends, together, she was a chorus of laughter.

He dreamed of Feuilly, alive, fingers flying over a keyboard furiously, cursing over code and firewalls and network outages. Then, his eyes, lifeless and staring, his blood soaking the earth, seeping into all, spilled on the grass.

He dreamed of Musichetta, of her soft hands, of her gentle face. He dreamed of the water wrung from the cloth, tinting the water in the basin pink.

Courfeyrac didn’t know how long he had been out when he suddenly awoke with a sharp intake of breath. Though she had been with him until he had fallen asleep, Musichetta was no longer in the room—her room—and he could hear voices beyond the closed door.

Hurried, raised voices. Panicked voices.

Still groggy from whatever sedative he had been given, Courfeyrac swung his legs over the bed and touched his feet to the floorboards. (When had his shoes been removed?) The chill of the wood on his bare feet was enough to will him to stand and take tentative steps towards the door. He opened it slowly.

There were more people in the main room than there had been last night. It took Courfeyrac a few moments to register—it was Bossuet (arrived sometime while he had been sleeping) standing quite near to Joly, who was bent over someone small and unconscious on top of the table. Jehan. Bahorel stood out of the way, while Musichetta crouched on the other side of the table and ran her hand through Jehan’s hair, gently combing her fingers through the tangles.

“He passed out in the sewers an hour ago, maybe an hour and a half,” Bossuet was saying to Joly. Courfeyrac couldn’t help but notice Bossuet’s hand lingering on the small of Joly’s back as he worked, and though he had never before felt embarrassed about his friends and their relationship, his face flushed and he forced himself to look away.

It had been half a year since the two men had been together, and to reunite so suddenly but with no time to celebrate was most unlucky.

“Did you give him any medications underground?” Joly asked, gently lifting one of Jehan’s eyelids and inspecting the young man’s pupil.

“We had none to give,” Bossuet replied. “Grantaire used a, ah, herbal remedy to help knock him out, but that’s it.”

“’Chetta, cut the bandages from around his chest, would you? Quite gently, if you would, love.”

Feeling like he was eavesdropping on something important and not liking the way that sat in his center, Courfeyrac properly stepped into the main room. Bahorel noticed him first. “You…should not be awake right now,” he said. Seeing the confused look in the other man’s eye, he continued, “That pill was supposed to knock you out for a solid eight hours.”

“I don’t feel fully awake, if that makes up for it,” Courfeyrac mumbled as he sat himself down in a chair near the fireplace. All but burned out, the embers glowed weakly, but gave off heat still.

The bandages wrapped around Jehan’s torso cut and moved aside, Joly felt around the young man’s broken ribs. He frowned, then leaned in close to Jehan’s face and turned his head to listen to his breathing. “Did you notice his skin discoloration at all?” Joly asked Bossuet. “See here—the bluish tint to his lips, and here, around his nail beds.”

“I noticed he seemed pale right after he passed out. The light was dim, though. I thought he was just exhausted.”

“Well, yes, but it’s more than that. It seems one of his broken ribs has punctured a lung.”

Bahorel shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Can you fix it?” he asked after an uncomfortable length of silence in the room.

Joly wiped the back of his wrist across his forehead. “Well, no,” he said. “It hasn’t yet proven fatal, so he may just need rest to allow it to heal itself. On the other hand, his lung could collapse, and I have neither oxygen nor the means for surgery here. If his lung collapses I fear he will die.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Courfeyrac asked. Joly turned. He hadn’t even noticed that Courfeyrac had entered the room.

He shrugged. “He may recover,” he said. “Or he may slip away. Some of his wounds are infected, he could fall ill. There just…there isn’t very much I can do at this point. If he survives, it will be a long recovery. He’ll never have full movement in the fingers they broke. I think it best we make him comfortable, and if he is to die, pray that he does not awake before then so it may at least be peaceful.”

They moved him to the bedroom and gathered a couple extra blankets to try to keep him warm. He looked very small, laying there on the bed that Joly and Musichetta shared. Courfeyrac sat at the foot of the bed, his legs curled up underneath him. The others had left the room once Jehan was settled, and yet he stayed in an unspoken agreement to keep an eye on the unconscious man for a time.

Bossuet returned though, and placed one of Musichetta’s wool shawls around Courfeyrac’s shoulders. After a silence, he said quietly, “We had to detour, Jehan and I. We passed Feuilly on the way out.”

Courfeyrac said nothing. He was trying too hard not to think of the dead man’s eyes, and he was failing miserably. Bossuet continued, “I didn’t want to leave him there. I wanted to move his body, or…I don’t know. But with Jehan, I couldn’t. And I understand that you could not, either. Bahorel told me what had happened.”

Still silent, Courfeyrac bit the inside of his lip and stared down at Prouvaire’s broken fingers, covered by makeshift splints and bandages. “He was very fortunate, though,” Bossuet said quieter still as he placed a firm hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “to have you there with him, at the end.”

It seemed as though everything had blurred around the center of his vision, and Courfeyrac was quite confused until he realized he was crying. Void of words, all he could do was nod, and Bossuet squeezed his shoulder and lingered for a moment before taking his leave.

The nights had grown colder as the summer had ended and autumn began, and with only one candle for light and no stove or fireplace in the bedroom, the chill quickly became unbearable. It wasn’t long before Courfeyrac pulled the blankets aside and crawled underneath them, next to Jehan. Courfeyrac would not sleep, but instead placed a hand softly on the young man’s chest, feeling the slow rise and fall, listening to the labored breath pass in and out of his lips.

Maybe, he thought, if he watched and listened and stayed there with him, Jehan’s breath would never stop.

 

* * *

 

Finally, silence. Alone in the dark, fingers entwined, breath joining between open lips. It seemed an eternity had passed since last they were together, but it was easy to forget that now.

Bossuet lifted a hand to pass over Joly’s cheek. “I have missed you,” he said softy.

Joly took his hand in his and softly pressed his lips to his fingertips. “And I, you.”

“I will not leave your side again.”

Their lips touched, and warmth radiated between them. Fingers tracing lines on bare skin, fingers gently tugging hair, fingers wrapped around, around.

It was more than pleasure. It was reunion, and satisfaction, and months of fear and longing suddenly over, and all was good, and all was _him_.

 

* * *

 

The bastard made it all look easy. Ambushing a minimally-staffed watch outpost, killing the guards, hijacking the van, and driving it inconspicuously through the streets of Paris.

Grantaire mostly followed along and made sure Combeferre was keeping up. The man looked like he was going to pass out at any moment, but still he kept moving, and Grantaire kept him steady when he appeared to falter. Enjolras had only glanced back at the other two occasionally, making sure they were still there and still alive, but otherwise wreaking havoc and raising hell and now, operating a vehicle like he had done it a thousand times, though Grantaire was fairly sure Enjolras had never driven.

“I doubt we’ll make it out of the gate without being stopped,” Grantaire said. Combeferre lay on the floor in the back of the van. His eyes were shut and he was breathing deeply, but he was still conscious.

“Of course not,” Enjolras replied, his eyes fixed on the road. “We’re not leaving in the van.”

Before Grantaire could ask, Enjolras pulled his arms from his jacket sleeves, one after the other. “Help me remove this,” he said, referring to the bullet resistant vest with the explosive charges still attached.

Grantaire hopped awkwardly behind the driver’s seat and assisted Enjolras in removing the vest, leaving him in a thin, sweat-soaked shirt. “Put it in the very back,” he ordered Grantaire. “We’ll get close enough to the gate to leave the van, then blow it and escape in the aftermath.”

Grantaire did as he was told, and Enjolras shifted his body as he pulled the jacket out from behind him and tossed it in the back as well. It landed at Combeferre’s feet, and he opened his eyes.

There hadn’t been time to speak before, but they had time enough now before they reached their destination. “What you did was foolish, Enjolras, and incredibly dangerous. It was a poorly thought-out plan.”

Enjolras grinned. “But it worked, didn’t it?”

“Barely. We could have been shot.” But Combeferre was smiling as well, as best he could. “What about the others?”

“All alive,” Enjolras assumed. “We’ll meet them at the safe house.”

“And then?”

Grantaire, who had been politely trying to ignore their conversation, perked up, and raised his eyes to Enjolras, who didn’t speak for a moment. “And then we’ll figure out what comes next, all of us together.”

Time passed quickly enough, and it was not long before they reached the gate they intended to destroy. Enjolras let the van slow, and glanced back at the two men. “Ready?”

Of course they weren’t ready, but they both nodded anyway. Enjolras let the van slow even further, then came to a stop and turned off the engine.

One of the guards of the Watch was making his way towards them, illuminated by the headlights. Enjolras opened the door a crack and shouted out to him, “Can you give me a hand? Engine's stopped!”

In his right hand Enjolras gripped a pistol. He waited, eyes focused and determined, sweat dotting his brow, until the guard was close enough to notice that Enjolras was not, in fact, one of them. Quickly Enjolras brought the pistol up and shot the man in the head.

“Go!” he shouted, and all three bolted from the van and ran towards the gate. The timing was tricky, they had to be far enough away to be safe from the explosion, but not so close that they would be shot and killed.

The explosion came sooner than Grantaire had anticipated. Once again he heard the deafening noise of the charges detonating, but this time, he felt it as well. He found himself thrown forward, smashed into the pavement and rolling onto his side, as a wave of heat hit him.

Everything around him was silent. He didn’t even hear a ringing in his ears like before, just silence. He laid there in a daze for a few moments before he was being roughly pulled up by whom he assumed was Enjolras.

The face  in front of him was not Enjolras’. The hand that gripped the front of his jacket was not Enjolras’. He could do nothing but stare in shock as the man leveled the barrel of his gun to Grantaire’s head.

As if by instinct Grantaire shut his eyes so tightly he could see stars. But the grip on his jacket suddenly loosened, and there was a hot, blinding, terrible pain in his thigh, and when he opened his eyes Enjolras was in front of him and the guard was dead at his feet and Enjolras was screaming at him but he couldn’t hear a word of it, he just stared and grabbed at where the pain blossomed in his leg and his hand came away slick and red.

He was being pulled again, this time by Enjolras, and every single step sent knives and darts and needles of pain shooting upwards, and he could feel his blood pumping out of the wound. What had happened? What was happening now?

“Leave me,” he said in a daze, not hearing the words escape his lips. _I’ll slow you down. We’ll all be killed. Leave me to die._

But Enjolras kept his hand tightly on Grantaire and kept pulling him forward, through the gate, and then another hand gripped his other side. Combeferre, bruised, fresh blood covering his face and neck, pulled Grantaire along as well.

Paris was behind, then. Grantaire could not perceive anything but the pain in his leg and the ground in front of his feet, and he didn’t know how much time had passed before the ground was rising up to meet him, which was very odd, he thought, and how strange it was to have his face suddenly in the dirt.

Someone turned him over, and Enjolras stared down at him, “Do not die,” he ordered, and Grantaire could hear him speak in one of his ears now, and that was wonderful, that he was not deaf. So wonderful that he smiled and reached a hand up to touch Enjolras’ face.

“I will not,” he said, his words slurring together. Someone was poking at his leg and it stung, but the sun itself was looking down at him and grasping his hand, so the pain was nothing. Nothing at all.

He could hear Combeferre, but he seemed very far away. “He’s bleeding out, Enjolras, the bullet severed an artery, it passed right through, I don’t—I can’t—“

“It’s fine,” Grantaire said. “It’s okay.” He didn’t feel anything below his waist anymore, not the wound, not his blood pumping from it, nothing at all.

Enjolras’ placed one hand on Grantaire’s chest, and the other on the side of his face. “You were magnificent,” he said quietly, and something wet dripped onto Grantaire’s neck.

Tears.

“It was always you,” Grantaire said slowly, and everything around him that was not Enjolras was blurred and dark. Radiant in front of him, beautiful, perfect and golden and crying.

Grantaire’s hand dropped slowly from Enjolras’ face. “Grantaire—"

He was not there. His eyes gazed up at Enjolras’ face, but he was not there.

“ _Grantaire_!”

He was not there.


	16. Chapter 16

“We have to go.”

Enjolras could not look away from Grantaire. He could not speak, he could not move.

Combeferre had stood. “We are not yet safe.” He glanced back towards the direction they had come, back towards Paris, squinting in the dim of the early morning. “We cannot stay here. We have to keep moving.”

Still weighted to the ground where he knelt over Grantaire’s body, Enjolras curled his fingers slowly around the fabric of his dead friend’s jacket. He wanted to say something, anything to Combeferre, but words simply couldn’t reach his mouth. So, he stared down at the body instead.

Combeferre was suddenly at his side, and took Enjolras’ face in both his hands. He turned it to his own and, like he had done so many times before, looked the man straight in the eyes and spoke to him the firm reality of the situation. “Grantaire is dead; you cannot do anything for him, and you do him a disservice by staying here and waiting to die. We must go now, Enjolras.”

For several moments they remained there, kneeling on the ground, eyes locked together. Sadness and exhaustion covered Enjolras’ face in a haze. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, stared back into Combeferre’s, and it hurt him to see no hint of that spark looking back at him.

“Please,” he all but whispered, and for the briefest moment of time he thought he would be forced to leave him there and flee alone. He, alone, when Enjolras had come after him, threatened to destroy himself for him, when Grantaire had died because he helped free him from torture and death. To run without Enjolras after all the time they had been friends was a horrible thought, something that twisted inside him and gripped his chest with icy fingers.

The thought disappeared immediately, however, when Enjolras nodded slowly, absently. Combeferre stood and held his hand down--which, being injured as he was, he had no business doing and in some corner of his mind Enjolras knew it, but took his hand anyways. Combeferre helped to pull him up, and as soon as he was standing, Enjolras crouched back down and took Grantaire’s forearms in his hands.

Combeferre didn’t need to ask what he was doing. With a grunt, Enjolras pulled Grantaire’s body from the ground and laid him over one shoulder. He wrapped his arm around the back of Grantaire’s knees to steady the body there.

They walked slowly, Combeferre and Enjolras and the corpse he carried. Though the sun was rising, daylight seemed to offer no warmth. The earth was cold beneath their feet, boots shuffling small clouds of dust into the air.

Blood dripped idly from Grantaire’s boot into the dirt.

If Enjolras was exhausted, he did not show it. If his legs felt weak his shoulder screamed and ached, he did not let it slow him. And when Combeferre offered to take the body from him for a time, Enjolras refused with a firm shake of his head, his jaw set.

Sunlight shone lazily onto what Grantaire left behind—calloused hands, bitten fingernails, a mess of black curls, bones and skin and blood and everything else that was not Grantaire, not anymore, just empty weight that reminded Enjolras with every single painful step the high price of saving a man’s life.

Had he known he would have to trade one for the other—Combeferre’s life for Grantaire’s—would he have done it all just as he had?

He didn’t want to think of it, so instead, he put his mind to setting things firmly in his memory: that stupid, smug smile. The way he smelled of green and sweet and earth and lemons, perhaps, after tending to his plants. The hint of panic in his eyes when Enjolras caught him staring. His smile, in his last moments.

Enjolras had been blind. He knew that now.

He wept silently, tears mixing with sweat and dirt and pooling slightly under his chin before falling to his chest.

For his friend’s sake, Combeferre, walking several paces ahead of Enjolras, pretended he didn’t hear.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Courfeyrac realized when he awoke was that he had fallen asleep.

The second thing he realized was that Jehan was still breathing.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep, but it couldn’t have been for more than a couple of hours. He freed his legs from the twist of blankets they were trapped in and maneuvered himself into a sitting position, careful not to disturb Jehan too much.

The young man’s lips were still tinted a slight shade of blue, and his face was still quite pale. With his sleeve, Courfeyrac dabbed a thin veil of sweat from Jehan’s brow, then softly brushed his hair away from his forehead with his fingers.

_Do not die_ , he thought pointedly, as though Jehan could hear him and obey. The young man’s breath still came ragged and labored, but he was no worse off than before, so that was something, at least.

Of all of the people Courfeyrac ever knew, Jehan deserved suffering and death least of all. Sweet Jehan, braver than all the rest, beaten and torn apart and probably dying. It broke Courfeyrac’s heart. He took the young man’s small, unbroken hand in his own and made tiny, slow circles on his skin with the pad of his thumb.

Courfeyrac heard the footsteps outside the door just seconds before it flew open. Bahorel stood there, and a moment of silence passed as Bahorel tried to come up with the right words.

“You should come outside,” he settled on.

“But, Jehan—“

“Enjolras is back.”

Courfeyrac was caught between bolting out of the bed and staying with Jehan. He awkwardly shifted so his legs hit the floor, but his body stayed on the bed. “Will he be all right, do you think?”

Bahorel’s face showed an odd expression, one Courfeyrac couldn’t quite read. But a thin smile seemed to play on his lips, and so Courfeyrac straightened, left the bed and followed Bahorel outside.

It seemed impossible to feel so many things at once. Elation at the sight of Combeferre, alive, standing several meters away in the large expanse of grass. Relief to see Enjolras, though he looked exhausted and weak, fallen to his knees and grasping Combeferre’s sleeve with one hand. Then Courfeyrac’s eyes traveled to the crumpled figure in the grass in front of Enjolras, and his heart sank, and anger and sadness and hatred and despair burned hot in his center.

Joly was running to the three of them, just as he had when Bahorel and Courfeyrac had arrived, and Combeferre was already holding his hand out to stop him as he rushed towards Grantaire, saying words Courfeyrac could not hear. Joly looked up at Combeferre, and then turned his head to Enjolras, who just stared at the grass.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t acknowledge Joly, nor look up to see Bossuet and Bahorel and Courfeyrac and Musichetta standing in front of the house, nor do anything but grip Combeferre’s sleeve.

Even after Courfeyrac jogged over and helped to pull him up off the ground, even when he gently shook his arm, even though he said his name over and over to get him to respond, Enjolras remained distant. He was there, but he wasn’t there.

An acute stress reaction, Joly guessed once he had examined Enjolras and questioned Combeferre (who stitched together a superficial but still-bleeding forehead wound of his own while looking in a mirror, much to Bahorel’s interest). Enjolras was put into bed next to Jehan, offered water and bread (which sat untouched on the bedside table), and Joly checked his pulse and his temperature and cleaned the minor cuts and scrapes that marred his skin. While he tended the lacerations, Joly tested out various levels of gentility with the wounds, and even when he dug his fingernail into broken skin, Enjolras did not respond. He simply stared forward, eyes unfocused, conscious but…not.

“He’s disoriented, mentally withdrawn,” Joly explained to Courfeyrac, who stood in the bedroom doorway and watched Joly work with quiet curiosity. “It should resolve itself in some time.”

“Should?”

“He’ll come back,” Joly assured Courfeyrac as he cleared away remnants of bandages and cloth from the bedside table. He stepped around the bed and began to examine Jehan, checking his pulse and listening to his breathing.

He then tapped gently on Jehan’s chest, and frowned. “Courfeyrac, get Combeferre immediately. Wait--“ Courfeyrac was halfway out the door when Joly closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “To the…left of the fireplace there is a storage crate, at the very bottom is a leather case with instruments, a black leather case, bring it here but send Combeferre first, and be quick.”

Courfeyrac didn’t ask questions. He found Combeferre washing blood from his hands, and he didn’t know what to say or how to say it, so he just grabbed his arm and pulled him in the direction of the bedroom.

“Is it Enjolras?” Combeferre asked, understanding that there was an emergency.

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac breathed, and Combeferre’s brow furrowed as he picked up speed towards the bedroom.

Courfeyrac found the case Joly had asked for, an old-looking hard leather bag that looked far too old for Joly to be its original owner. He returned it to the bedroom, where Combeferre and Joly were in serious discussion, Combeferre pulling on a pair of gloves.

“You’re certain?”

“Quite,” Joly responded, cleaning an area of Jehan’s chest with alcohol. “I had seen a tension pneumothorax just once at school, but I’ve never performed an aspiration, I know the theory of course, but you are more qualified for this type of procedure than I.”

“Sixteen gauge, then, do you think?”

“Fourteen would be better. Ah, thank you Courfeyrac.”

Joly opened the black leather case which was full of medical instruments. He pulled out a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid while Combeferre readied a thick, long hollow needle on a towel on the bedspread. Courfeyrac’s stomach lurched at the sight of the needle.

“What are you doing to—“

Just then, Jehan began to stir. His eyes fluttered open and widened, and the boy tried to take a breath but couldn’t. Joly placed a hand on his chest to gently hold him down, and spoke softly but quickly, “Jehan, you are safe but you are ill, Combeferre is going to make it easier for your to breathe, but you must stay still. Courfeyrac?”

He was at Jehan’s side immediately, turning the boy’s face towards him and away from the preparations Combeferre and Joly were making. Jehan’s breath came in rasps, tears filled his eyes and he tried to speak, but Courfeyrac shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said, grabbing Jehan’s uninjured hand in his own. “You’ll be just fine. I’m here. Look at me, Jehan.”

At the sound of his name on Courfeyrac's lips, some of the panic in Jehan's eyes melted away. Still wide and terrified, a fraction of the fear had left them, and Courfeyrac spoke again, "I'm here, Jehan."

Combeferre pressed his fingers to Jehan’s chest on one side, the side where his broken rib had punctured his lung. Joly had cut a finger off a rubber glove and pushed the needle through it, then placed a thin tube at the end of the needle and the syringe half-filled with the clear liquid on the other end of the tube. He held this out to Combeferre, who had found what he had been pressing for. “Courfeyrac, hold him down.”

Without taking his eyes off Jehan’s, Courfeyrac snaked an arm across top of Jehan’s chest and pressed down as firmly as he could without hurting him. He didn’t want to watch and he didn’t want to take his eyes from Jehan’s, but curiosity got the best of him. He glanced downward for a moment.

Guided by Combeferre’s steady hand the needle sunk into Jehan’s chest and the young man would have gasped if he could breathe. Courfeyrac’s eyes snapped back to Jehan’s. His face twisted in pain and his legs kicked out, but Joly held them down.

He did not shut his eyes; as long as Courfeyrac looked into his, comfort and reassurance and safety, concern and fear, all at once, he could not look away.

A faint hiss escaped and bubbles began to fill the syringe with the clear liquid. Combeferre let the syringe fill with air, then slowly pulled the needle out of Jehan’s chest and kept the cut-off finger of the rubber glove on the wound. Joly helped to tape the bit of rubber there (later Combeferre would explain to Courfeyrac that it was a valve—to let air out but only when Jehan exhaled).

A touch of pink returned almost immediately to Jehan’s lips. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled, his eyes wild but locked on Courfeyrac’s. He couldn’t speak. He just breathed for a time.

Combeferre removed his gloves and as Joly gathered the supplies, he explained to Jehan, “There was air trapped in your chest, so we let it out. One of your broken ribs punctured a lung, did you know that?”

Jehan finally took his eyes off of Courfeyrac and looked to Combeferre now. He weakly shook his head. Combeferre continued, “You’re still quite sick, Jehan, so you must rest. Enjolras is lying next to you—he’s sick too. But I’m confident you will both recover fully.”

If Jehan saw the lie in Combeferre’s eyes, he did not show it.

Combeferre managed a bit of a smile and squeezed Jehan’s leg. “Rest if you can, I’ll ask Musichetta to bring you something warm to drink later, and perhaps something to eat, she wouldn’t mind, Joly?”

“Hmm?” Joly was back on the other side of the bed, looking down at Enjolras, who had not stirred since he had lain down. “Yeah, yes of course.”

Courfeyrac caught Combeferre’s eye, and though no words were exchanged, it was understood he would stay. After another check of Jehan’s pulse and temperature and a bit more cleanup, Joly and Combeferre took their leave.

There was silence in the room, save Jehan’s deep, loud breathing. Enjolras had closed his eyes, whether he was asleep or not was anyone’s guess. Courfeyrac had not let go of Jehan’s hand. “I stayed here all night,” he said quietly. “And I’ll stay until you’re better.”

Silence again. Bits of conversation in the other room made their way through the cracks in the door. Courfeyrac felt Jehan’s fingers feebly squeeze his, and he smiled. Then, he frowned.

“Feuilly was shot,” he said. “I held him for a few minutes and then he died. And Grantaire…I don’t know what happened, but he's gone, too.”

Jehan’s fingers squeezed his again, but with slightly more strength. “I thought _you_ were going to die.” And then, half a joke, “You might still die.” Jehan managed a grin at that.

He then closed his eyes and took another deep breath. Courfeyrac let go of his hand long enough to grab a wooden chair from across the room and pull it to the edge of the bed. He sat down, took Jehan’s hand in his again, and laid his head on the mattress.

_Do not die_ , he again thought pointedly at Jehan as the boy rested. _Don’t you even dare_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I totally lied, this fic has one more chapter...or two...I thought I was ready to end it, but alas, I'm not!
> 
> Thanks for reading thus far and for leaving comments, they are, as always, so greatly appreciated!


	17. Chapter 17

He sees these things.

Missing pieces, entirely, completely lost. Pale skin, empty eyes. A bullet tears through flesh, through vein, through muscle, blood on the ground, blood in the grass, blood soaking into fibers of fabric and staining skin. Blood on his hands and in his hair and on his lips and

Black curls, pale skin. The scent of earth, the scent of rain, of green and black and brown. Fingers meet skin, a touch that lingers longer than necessary, longer than polite. Longer than

Take stock: One’s self.  
One alive, but weak, who brings water and who brings food though he knows it will remain untouched, weary and tired, who almost wishes he had been left behind to die  
One who stays, who loves, not the same man as he was mere days ago, broken by something, something that hurt him, that scared him, that changed him  
One who cannot take a breath without pain, whose skin and bones are broken, whose bruises are red and purple and black and yellow and green, who looks weak and pale, who is dying  
One, overwhelmed, worried, cleaning wounds, changing bandages, fretting over the sick, who hasn’t slept in days, dark circles under his eyes, thinner than before  
One who does not know what to feel, who rarely leaves the side of his lovers, who clings to what he could have lost, doesn’t speak much, knows there was food enough for two but not for eight, who worries  
One, his voice clear from outside the small house, he has found a stone large enough, he will bring it in from the field, he will put it under the tree, and is there a spade, the body must be buried soon

Seven out of nine

One is left behind

One is dead, what remains wrapped in a linen sheet, lying out on the grass in the shade of the tree

He sees him in the corner of the tiny bedroom, the dead man, staring at him, blood dripping onto the floorboards. It is not real. It is real. He stands there and stares, and he smiles and there is no warmth there, only death

The dead man reaches out his hand, stained red, reaches out to touch him, but he cannot

His heart begins to race, heat blossoms from the center of his chest, he cannot breathe, he is crying, why is he crying? His heart pounds in his chest, fear grips him at his center, he hears screaming and everything is too loud and he is grabbing Combeferre by the collar, yelling and crying and coming apart. He cannot breathe. He cannot breathe

He lashes out, fist connecting with flesh, fingernails catching on something and digging, tearing. A cry of pain, a cry for help, and there are more hands on him and everything is happening and everything is loud and terrifying and his heart feels as if it will explode

A pinprick, a sting, Combeferre’s eyes and he is speaking, he is saying words but they dissipate before they reach his ears. Familiar hands gripped tightly around his wrists, holding them at a safe distance, white knuckles, something cold in his veins

Everything shifts.

Eyes begin to lose focus. It is safe. It is safe to close your eyes. It is safe to sleep.

A hand in his hair. A hand in his hand.

 

* * *

 

Several hours passed in quiet before Enjolras awoke. His eyelids felt heavier than they should, his limbs felt weighted, and his head was foggy and slow. Things were clearer, though, than they had been before. Before—

Slowly he turned his head to the side and with a jolt realized the bed was empty. “Jehan—“

He started to rise, but a hand pressed on his chest and gently guided him back down onto the mattress. “He’s fine, Enjolras, we moved him to the sitting room.” There Combeferre stood, and Enjolras was not in the least bit surprised to see him but relieved just the same. But his face…he was tired, he was still bruised and gaunt, and the gash at his hairline he had stitched up himself had been torn open, it seemed, and stitched back together.

Realization weighed heavier still on Enjolras, and an uncomfortable tightness gripped his chest. “I hurt you,” he said, and it sounded more like an apology than Combeferre expected.

“You were not yourself. You were having some kind of an attack. How do you feel now?”

Enjolras silently assessed himself for a moment. “Groggy. Heavy.” He grimaced. “You drugged me, did you not?”

“Joly did, yes,” Combeferre replied. He took a step over and sat at the foot of the bed, curling his legs underneath him. “Though I can’t say I disagree with his decision. You were quite dangerous.”

Dangerous. The word hung in the air after it left Combeferre’s lips. Enjolras knew himself to be violent when a situation warranted it, but hearing it from his dearest companion gave it more weight. He would kill a man with his bare hands without a second thought to protect the ones he cared for, but to physically harm one of them, even though his mental state was altered, was something he had never thought he would have to come to terms with.

In the silence that followed between them Enjolras realized he had been hearing a sound outside the window, something rhythmic, a sort of scratching but deeper. He turned his head to the sound.

Digging. Someone was digging. “…For Grantaire?” he asked, and Combeferre nodded an affirmation.

There was silence between them again. For the first time in a long time, Enjolras did not know what to say. There were too many thoughts swimming about his head, too many things to feel and no way to make sense of it all. Combeferre sat at the foot of the bed, silent, seemingly at a loss for words as well.

Enjolras knew him better than that. “Speak,” he said softly. “I would know your mind.”

Combeferre met his eyes, and seeing the weary look on his face, hesitated but a moment. “I…I don’t know how to put to words what I want to say.”

“That’s a first,” Enjolras muttered. They both managed a smile, and the tension that seemed to weigh between them dissipated slightly.

Combeferre tried again. “You came back for me, at great personal risk, and at great cost. And I owe you my life, and I thank you, but I am not sure I’m worthy of the loss suffered.” Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, but Combeferre held up a hand. “Please. Let me finish. You’ve spoken in the past of the equality of men, and the value of a life, and sacrificing for the greater good.”

He reached out his hand and placed it on Enjolras’ knee. “I would have gladly made that sacrifice. But you were wrong about equality, Enjolras. No two men are equal in that you may exchange one’s life for the other. And…and you need to know that I do not…I didn’t want that. I would have rather…do you understand?”

Of course he did. He placed his hand on top of Combeferre’s. “You are a good man, Combeferre. Perhaps the best man I know. And I am sorry you feel guilt for—“ The words stopped in his throat. “For Grantaire’s death. But he made his own choice. I asked him to flee, and he would not. And without him I fear I would have been killed.” A sudden surge of pride, warm and liberating, filled him. “He made that sacrifice so we would not have to.”

Enjolras squeezed Combeferre’s hand under his gently. He knew Grantaire’s death was not in vain, and though it pained him still to think on it, he took comfort in the gift the man had given him—his life, and the life of their friend. He would have never asked it of him, but given freely, Enjolras himself had doubts he was worthy of it.

But if he knew Grantaire he knew the man would mock him for being useless in bed for so long, for being so upset, for not pulling himself together and focusing on the task at hand.

“So, my friend,” Enjolras said, straightening up to a more rigid sitting position on the bed. “Let us discuss where the rest of us go from here.”


End file.
